Astarte’s Weaning

All moss-grown arches, nodding violets mirror

The Thoreau-wise past that I envy my ancestors.

O spider, scorpion, betrayer: backward leaning

Over the bridged rapids. Swinging bridge and cherry tree –

Are these my enemies?

•

Enemies to the piercing vision enter and separate

Curtains to a pastiche of rundown time;

Passover, O meal of love come scatter

Unblessed bread on the grass. Let it become

Loaves and fishes again.

•

Again Destructor count down to the moment and

Let the wise go down to the depths with you;

Let them metamorphose to stone, to tree, to serpent:

Some future striver’s wreath. Some ear’s blessing

Speaks in the grove at night.

•

Night is over my suckling my serpent child

Hang on my breast once more. This percipient one

Who has refused all syruped rusks, Pablum and cow’s milk

Preferring the bitter truth of malnutrition

To all false sweetness.

•

Who with erupting fangs

Pierced the blue nipple of piety

Until the blood flew.