Morning,
and his rust-coloured shadow
is cast onto the floor,
beneath it the stone flags
show their cracks and flaws,
they are brown
maroonish
or black.
That he may come in to wound her
that he may come in to love her
is the same thing.
There are two pots
There are bowls,
there is a pestle
and a short knife,
in the metal dish
is the featherless corpse
bathed in its blood.
He winged it
before he broke its neck for the pot.
That he may come to wound her
that he may come to love her
is the same thing.
He is a cruel child.
He has the cruelty of a child
who knows where the fractures are
he can trace them with his hands
although the fractures are silvered in their healing
for her, the scars sing.
That he want to wound to wound her
that he may want to love her
is the same thing.
Sabine is © C. Murray.
First published in The Southword Literary Journal 2012 as Two Songs of War and a Lyric
Chris Murray 