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Genevieve Taggard
Over you, over you, over,
I hang like a wave, like a lover,
Like a scimitar edged with hate ;
Too heavy with grief to be straight
And far,
Too frail to ever discover
How to fall like a wave or a lover —
Or a blue-thin scimitar.
I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,
So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,
So sharp that the air would turn its edge
Were it to be twisted in flight.
Licking passions have bitten their arabesques into it,
And the mark of them lies, in and out,
Worm-like,
With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.
My brain is curved like a scimitar,
And sighs at its cutting
Like a sickle mowing grass.
But of what use is all this to me!
I, who am set to crack stones
In a country lane!