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chelidonAnother fine one for Summer...
Fire-Feast
from Patricia Monaghan, "Seasons of the Witch"
In the middle of the city the men
feel a sudden tenderness above the ears.
As the sun sets they lie down,
heads throbbing. As the moon rises
horns push out like seedlings
from the temples of all the men.
Most sleep through the hot night
and wake exhausted wet with sweat,
full of dreams they can't remember.
All day at work they snap warily at other
men, look weakly after all the women.
All day they search their pockets for lost keys.
Only a few rise in the moonlight,
heads full of antlers, to seek
the women dancing on the leaves.
Only a few men know the power of stags
dancing through them as they are ridden
by the eager women of the night.
And the next day, and the next,
we know these men when we meet them.
We see them from the corners of our eyes
turning into animals, turning back, turning.
We know them with our doe skin,
we know them with our steaming breath.
Fire-Feast
from Patricia Monaghan, "Seasons of the Witch"
In the middle of the city the men
feel a sudden tenderness above the ears.
As the sun sets they lie down,
heads throbbing. As the moon rises
horns push out like seedlings
from the temples of all the men.
Most sleep through the hot night
and wake exhausted wet with sweat,
full of dreams they can't remember.
All day at work they snap warily at other
men, look weakly after all the women.
All day they search their pockets for lost keys.
Only a few rise in the moonlight,
heads full of antlers, to seek
the women dancing on the leaves.
Only a few men know the power of stags
dancing through them as they are ridden
by the eager women of the night.
And the next day, and the next,
we know these men when we meet them.
We see them from the corners of our eyes
turning into animals, turning back, turning.
We know them with our doe skin,
we know them with our steaming breath.
