Lynn Strongin

To Be soothed

we do things
yet stir up nettles             the foot-pedal of the radio-organ shuffling

as though schooled.

To escape
we dream the way holy men have gone      into the desert       to be alone

in harsh light:
Harsher, stricter
than marriage ground down by mace in cup to so fine a powder it could be blown away by the first wind.

Too intense, too close, dream piled on dream

a natural history of disappointment
we must get out of home.

Like a good parent, I cannot tuck you in. Fears won't sleep.

Even bankrupt you carry on
ship scraping bottom
Like swans wing-in-wing we glide among ashes

that could come
from Christ's body
or the Holocaust

Blood of crucified Jesus or Rivkah's blood either in winter time
stain red the stone.

e-mail the poet at
info on the writer
to go back to the home page