Archive > Vol. X no. Z

Penelope Shuttle

Thou twingest me therewith Beloved as doth a pair of tongs

The air’s airy roots are light as widows’ weeds Light as the gallows or the departure of the bees The air and all its fortune carries sunsets made from nightingales and owls This would comfort me were it not for the tongs The air with its smiting claw comes closerclosercloser like a spider’s hairy hurryscurry The air my enemy is light as bridal veils the mind of a doe or the tidings the holly brings to the ash tree’s hateful hearkening An ark of air outwits the deluge by licking up salt and foam of tides Then it carries the sabre-tooth tigers to their place in the sun This too might comfort me were it not for the tongs The air is my bed my prayer and my dagger from earlier days when Olav tied his long-boats to London Bridge and wrenched it down The air my king is a mighty king un rois pussanz who has ruled for many a year though his daughter lies with the wolf The air my king has miswritten me a thousand letters he has cared for me not a jot he has lain in wait wearing the crown of the glad-like and he has all the castles Little shouting skulls of the air suppose me where I am and lift me across the span of stone-dead Spring And all this might comfort me Beloved were it not for the tongs