Faint Memory of a Monk Losing His Faith
In paradise, there are no flowers--
only jack pines scraping their way to bruised blue coin of sun.
Harts and boars sniff the rocks here, plump shoulder-meat
creeping fitfully under their fur. They have yellowed teeth in paradise,
In paradise there is a lot of death--there has to be.
The monks in the scriptoriums curl their parchments
at the pain of ulcers. They scratch their heads.
They keep forgetting what they're writing about.
Through the boards and through the needles,
a wind is blowing, porcelain, femur-sharp. The distraction, the distraction:
the snort and lick of a wolf. This is where
perforation feels right. This
is where we shed our skin--
where we deal it for pieces of sleep.
Copyright 1997, Kristina Sigler
Kristina Sigler recently graduated with a M.F.A. in creative writing from the University