You are reading an archived issue of Sleet Magazine. To return to the current issue, click here.

 

home  • archives  • submissions  • links  • us
Now is Apples

sk

Hammer we, the sickled moon
with blooded rock and clotted spoon.
In all our eyes the great god moves
counting freckles and loves.

Spitted on death's feather bed
our licorice nerves know sweet better
than teeth to crust or tongue to curd
— the slippering lips of a girl.

And skinned we plumb earth's lush shallows
where fixed between sun and shadow
we motiled gnomons mark the text
between what is was, and what will next.

But now is apples all knife-ripe
bitter ales and paper kites.
With bird in hand and hand in bush
on oyster shells we rabbits foot.

And poised between two heartbeats hung
where river rocked and mountain run
the winded sea from pole to pole
is swallowed in our templed skulls.

The moon draws up our salted blood.
We answer back — of Noah's flood
of memory, of god-oceans moved
— each wave a freckle, each wave a love.

– from All Fishes Weep 2010

 

Build Me a Pyre

sk

I will not fear the cold unbroken night,
Nor will I love the worms that crawl in graves.
Build me a pyre, and strike me a light.

If I could force the hand of Zeus I'd write
Forked lightning on the walls of ochred caves.
I will not fear the cold unbroken night.

All men of crag and stillborn earth share sight
That gazes past the candle's flickered wave.
Build me a pyre, and strike me a light.

White oaken wrought, this drunken urn holds bright
memories, marrow-sucked from the barrel's stave.
I will not fear the cold unbroken night.

The soul is the coin in the cradled wight,
Grown tender taken, whether spent or saved.
Build me a pyre, and strike me a light.

Let hunger-hollowed dogs among them fight
And a morsel from our last meeting crave.
I will not fear the cold unbroken night,

Build me a pyre, and strike me a light.

Nate Thomas is poetry advisor for Sleet Magazine.

top of page  • home  • archives  • submissions  • links  • us