Most read ▸
C.C. Hawthrone
It tastes like copper
And I bite my lip
Just to check for my blood type
Of course.
It looks like the darkest cavern
And I close my eyes
Just to compare shades of black
Of course.
It sounds like chaos
And I suffer in silence
Just to notice how quieter it would be
Of course
It feels like all three
And I scream and I scream and I scream for help
Just to hear the sound of my own voice
Of course.
I LAY them before you,
One, two, three silver pieces.
And a copper piece
Dulled with handling.
The first will buy you a cake.
The second a flower.
The third a coloured bead.
The fourth will buy you nothing at all.
Since it has a hole in it.
I beg you, therefore.
String it about your neck.
At least it will remind you of my poverty.
The pueblo rises under the sun-bronzed noon
As if hammered out of copper ;
The sky's metallic blue
Rings in the silence.
Nothing moves but the shapes
That strain without changing.