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Two Poems

Two Poems R O B E R T W R I G L E Y the church o f omni vorous li gh t On a long walk over the mountain you'd hear them first, the pang and chorus of their jubilations, as though you'd strayed out of Hawthorne into Cotton Mather-- such joyous remorse, such cranky raptures. And you'd love their fundamental squawking, little Pentecostal magpies, diminutive raven priests. You'd walk into their circle like a drag queen into a Texas truck stop-- silence first, then the caterwauls, the righteous gacks. Someone's gutted out a deer is all. In the late autumn snow you'd see the deacons' tracks--ursine, feline, canine--sweet eucharist of luck and opportunity for them all. Take and eat, clank the birds, but not too much. It might be a while. You'd wonder, yes you would, and maybe nudge with the toe of your boot the seeming rigidity of the severed esophagus. It's gently belled, like a deaf man's antique horn. Breathless, the lungs subside to carnate blood. You'd want to go, but you'd want to stay; you'd want a way to say your part in the service going on: through high windows the nothing light, the http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Manoa University of Hawai'I Press

Two Poems

Wrigley, Robert
Manoa , Volume 13 (2) – Oct 1, 2001
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University of Hawai'I Press
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Copyright © 2001 University of Hawai'i Press.
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1527-943x
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Abstract

R O B E R T W R I G L E Y the church o f omni vorous li gh t On a long walk over the mountain you'd hear them first, the pang and chorus of their jubilations, as though you'd strayed out of Hawthorne into Cotton Mather-- such joyous remorse, such cranky raptures. And you'd love their fundamental squawking, little Pentecostal magpies, diminutive raven priests. You'd walk into their circle like a drag queen into a Texas truck stop-- silence first, then the caterwauls, the righteous gacks. Someone's gutted out a deer is all. In the late autumn snow you'd see the deacons' tracks--ursine, feline, canine--sweet eucharist of luck and opportunity for them all. Take and eat, clank the birds, but not too much. It might be a while. You'd wonder, yes you would, and maybe nudge with the toe of your boot the seeming rigidity of the severed esophagus. It's gently belled, like a deaf man's antique horn. Breathless, the lungs subside to carnate blood. You'd want to go, but you'd want to stay; you'd want a way to say your part in the service going on: through high windows the nothing light, the

Journal

Manoa – University of Hawai'I Press

Published: Oct 1, 2001

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