The Knot

by on November 14, 2011

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Issue 1 Poetry
Sally Scopa

for Francois Mauriac

these are coils, not minds,
but you’ll keep them
quiet and lifelike
in a pinewood country cupboard—
the Sarlat quarry, the Garonne’s
curvature—these supply
your territory,argument,
indelicate prose eye

pinions bandaged
like clasped hands over a shuddering
frame engage the hum
that parts the air around your
station shuttling
convoys up the rail

we say you mistook
weakness for centuries
when every rabbit you spring
from its hutch dodges
through poplars towards the world,
the last in a great series
of crushing lives into meal
and putting that
stern-hand
in the whirling creature’s mouth

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