Cyntax

Book of Judith

This is no book of happy endings.  All
unresolved cliffhangers and bitter diatribes.
Jonathan Swift has nothing on me and as
one generation passes, one generation rises.
Always unsteady, they run headlong to death and
everything after.

Here I stand, daughter of the king of the world,
speechless, head in my hands.
His head in my hands. 

There are only so many mountain songs,
only so many honeyed words.  We’ve used them up,
the air is stale with milk curdling humidity,
yellow-white algae down deep in our lungs 
and we choke on every swallow.

The ocean recedes, the sun (the holy ghost)
conspires against us.  I can only play
pretend
for so long and then
forgetting myself, stumble on a word or two and
incite a rage that burns us up like wildfire.