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Erica Wagner

Three Poems

 

An unbeliever at the tomb of Frau Langhans, Hindelbank, Switzerland 

 

The tomb is cracked, burst,
not wide, only wide enough
to let the light back in.
Her cold carved eyes are wide
and her shoulder curves inward,
fearful, as if she had got used
to the stone-damp dark,
the new long journey, as if
she had decided it was easier,
quieter here, no longer to bend
over a hot copper tub
or quickly to dry her hands to greet
Frau Lustig, Frau Edelmann,
raven-black and bone-white
at her door, their bold eyes
on the pastor's new wife.
She cannot remember suffering;
she cannot envision grief.

And yet see her hand:
clutched tight round that fat,
eager arm: he has no qualm.
Her boy brought her with him once:
he is determined to do it again.
He lifts his little head beyond
the broken stone lip,
beyond the rim that marked
the end and the beginning, too.
His other hand has already escaped:
one inch further and he will see
the star, the skull,
worked into the stone's surface,
praise and admonition,
banishment and blame.

You could stand here for hours
in a churchyard in the back of beyond,
the wind under your collar,
the cold in the soles of your shoes,
waiting for the stone to warm and change,
for the dead pair to allow you
this grace. 
  


The transformations at the crossroads
 

   "Hold me tight and fear not" 
 

          I.

          and then all gold,
          over mouth, eyes, nose

          a dream of desert,
          of distant plain,
          the sun trapped at noon
          (while all around the moonlight
          was in flood) 

          bloodflow butting
          vein on vein
          bare knees digging
          where rib slid under skin 

          green gown dragged away
          drenched as moss
          the smell of old meat
          the stink of the grave

          II.

          starlight
          on the sea's
          shimmering skin
          light diamonds
          gathering
          crawling to land 

          all belly
          all back
          cold coils
          thick as a throat
          binding in one
          in two
          in three

          no breath
          no breast
          no bone

          a cut-stone head
          turns
          a black eye
          opens its embrace
 

          III.

          the snake's back
          snaps straight 

          the sun is rising
          but the earth's face
          still hides from the light
          and the sky
          is a swirl of pitch 

          the flare blazes
          between finger bones
          through flesh
          so that blood moves
          like molten iron
          and a roar of heat
          blurs the world
          burns away what is
          not held
          between these arms
          what is not now
          not then
          not what is yet
          to be

          IV.

          the moon in a cloud
          stillness
          on damp grass
          wild garlic
          gorse
          the sea sighs
          its secrets sink
          into the deep


          white skin
          stretched over
          muscle and bone
          a grey gaze
          the heat of two hands
          human
          hidden here 


          silence rains down
          from the stars

 

  

        The heroes in the north


          Afterwards the Attic light
          washes out through the opened doors
          like the suitors' blood
          poured from the Ithacan hall.
          One bronze helmet,
          a parking meter, a mobile phone.
          Through a break in blown cloud
          some god could come here too,
          where the high rocks
          turn their backs to the sea.
 

           -- for Hugh Lupton and Daniel Morden
 
 
 

Copyright (c) Erica Wagner 2003. All rights reserved. 


 

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