Alice
O. Howell
BRUGES
I think I already died in Bruges
my mouth slackening
drowned by prayers
green river opaquely murmuring
passing the bed become my bier
carried off the contents
of the pisspot
no, this is not meant bitterly!
the laced crystals
of my life, the eased intent
disease and faltering
the metals of my mettle
and all the pus of discontent
must have flowed out of me
was I a nun?
had I a dreadful sore
between my legs?
was I obedient and brave
calm and composed
implacably Christed
in starched beliefs?
did I weep only white tears
and pray numbed by faith
over my clean freckled hands
with china-blue veins?
O death, I remember you in Bruges!
my constricted structures
bridged the truth
missed it entirely
there was a dandelion clinging
by a brick near the glooming river's edge
I watched the school children pass it
for days
sclappering over the cobbles
laughing under the bells
in the fresh light of morning
the day I died
it diademed
its froth of wisdom
flew off with my soul
my Lord, my Lord, I gave you nothing
waiting for your All!
a.o.howell