Before this crown. Comes our history whose beginning is animal, as old as, @3they meet, they fuck,@1 something else binds them, @3Let us not call it.@1 The man's mouth on mine, my mouth on the woman, and inside her, you, inside me, inside. Always- @3Capitaine?@1 The woman first, and what to call what it was bound us. Let's not. The ruin first. The translation of one sister, of another the extended suicide-@3Yes, but in what order, before or after@1 the mother failing @3as she has to. Forgive.@1 The mother's mouth on the relative stranger's. As we forgive his on the woman-the mother-, and inside her. The father first, both the translation and the extended leave of him. Come the gifts, @3what else binds him,@1 a boat of tortoise shell, a watch- @3Yes, but in what order,@1 before, after the green compass, green as the grass that @3-- as it has to --@1 it gets lost in, no wonder I can't find it. The loss first. Before the double blow, not the father, but wind he says he commands also, even absent -- the being struck once for losing a thing given, once for crying, @3now it's gone.@1 Before the compass. Before this crown. The gift first, only, so small in the child's hand that was small, blameless, already bound. Copyright © Carl Phillips |