Clementis

By Audrey Low  

oh, dear Clementis,  

forgive these hands of thievery—  

how it feels as if my mother had given me to the god of trickery.

why must the gods take the clementines in the flush of your face?  

the small window high above my mortal head  

has begun its growth of moss;  

the light which dawns on my concrete bed  

at every retreat and crack,  

soothes with words like the salves you had.  

oh, Clementis,  

is it wrong to pray you're rooted?  

oftentimes, inside this ever-shrinking cage,  

I wondered if you had repainted our walls  

to a shade of orange you'd adore—  

do you see the balm of this reverie on my wounds?  

my Clementis,  

are the tangerines as sweet as we hoped?  

shall you choose of forsaking  

my fingers of restless serpents—  

why should broken souls of broken others  

pick up themselves?  

although cold and brittle is the air around me,  

it's a hearth with your wraith in trembling dreams.

do you ever think the divine envy us selfish

fragiles? 

Clementis,  

I could see the shape of a hearse driving by.  

the dull of grey on these walls,  

barren, they taunt with mirages of your parts— didn't

you say an illusion is a better mirth than blindness?  

oh, dear Clementis,  

forgive me—  

but when the gate opens her arms  

on the passing of two springs, I shall greet you

with skin and bones sanctified of sins.  

Clementis, give the clementines in your cheeks my kiss…