Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 2001 |

Small Corpus

There where the thread breaks, There where the sequestered asphodel opens, There where the prayers are blown out With the votives,        a zodiac of live coals, An ossuary of cinnamon and salt, A loose cursive script Of pine-soot ink and clear water Defining the fog and mountains.   The broken spine of a book Hinges autumn to winter.   When she touches his eyelids He shuts them.   The book, a book of songs, Falls open to:       the lily among the thorns. To: a bundle of myrrh.   When she touches his eyelids, When she touches her tongue to his nipple,   He sees a sky as blue as a god's body.

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Eric Pankey is the author of many collections of poetry, most recently Not Yet Transfigured (Orison Books, 2021). A chapbook called The Future Perfect: A Fugue is forthcoming from Tupelo Press. Pankey is the Heritage Chair in Writing at George Mason University.

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By Eric Pankey

There where the thread breaks, There where the sequestered asphodel opens, There where the prayers are blown out With the votives,        a zodiac of live coals, An ossuary of […]

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