Three Red Things
the three red things are:
a red umbrella with a black lace trim
spoke-shattered it belongs to my mother,
does not match my abstract and faux
snaky blouson jacket,
Alfred Schütze’s The Enigma of Evil
a memento-mori from his old library,
its red cover is rain-glued-sodden.
I bind myself to a tree,
a shopping bag, berry-red
not much to say about it
is the third red thing.
And I am in the park,
moulded to the body of a tree
its roots are moving beneath my feet.
I am afraid it will tear up from the
soil’s hungry drinking as,
form crystallises
assumes its
almost shape,
within the silica of
this holding-skin,
beneath crystal swipe
and tungsten-lunge
into the exact point
and drain,
then seep
from the vessel-encasement,
not sustainer.
Form crystallises
until
form becomes
a stone dress
press-to
drop-by-drop
raindrop-and-sinew
the whole woman
not tamp-in
onto the still-living-soil
a new shape
embed-in
the bone and the
living-sinew-of
the still-warm blood
slowly-so
and infinitely blue,
the milk-flow from crystallising breast,
material as silk-soft
(as) caul or veil
can be sweet as silk or rain or
blue,
rain sinews against and into
chalice of womb,
half-into the wall
and often not
still,
a lone, a bird night-sings and a
tremor of rain runs liquidly down the bodice and gather,
as gradual operation of hand-upon-hand, hand-on-stone
make a pleat, a stitch, a fraying thread, on bodice sequined
for silica plinthing.
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Chris Murray 