Archaeology

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Same as the rhythm of digging:
the lash and beat of pulse, the best of breath
in one small space, focused
where the hand strokes down.

Through the grit of your teeth
the sounds of your effort
harder,
god,
every move wrenches
an arch, a curse, in
the suspense of square inches.

You go deep to
the rage and its cure
peeled back from the bones
by the blade.

Your voice breaks free of the corpse;
your language is an acid bath. The artifacts
force themselves through your teeth til they trickle
to an end through the splitting of your spine.

Along these angry corridors
and in the centers of temples,
every stubborn bone of you waits
draped in the bangles of old damnation.
Your burial mound opens like a wound;
circled in bright gold
are the names of your torturers
tattooed on your bones. You open, empty,
an arrowpoint, a blood-birthed
god, bathed in your own voice.

Like diving for pearls, like dragging a river
with loaves, like going down into the tar
the stone, the peat, and finding skulls, turned
by age to ivory, and setting them in bright sun
to dry, finally, clean.


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3 Comments
UnderYourSpellUnderYourSpellover 16 years ago
~

Wow what a great read .. thankyou very much

LeBrozLeBrozover 16 years ago
~~

Excellent! Dense and compelling reading material here. Second Ange's comments. Love that title which would misdirect a superficial reader, yet it does tie in so well — you've just got to read a lot deeper.

AngelineAngelineover 16 years ago
Just wonderful!

This is powerful writing with compelling imagery. Consider submitting it to a literary magazine where it can get the attention it deserves. Read of the day for me!

Recommended in the new poems review thread on the Poetry Feedback and Discussion forum. :)

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