Read Online A Woman Clothed in Words by Anne Szumigalski - Free Book Online

sandwich in my mouth)

    ~~~

    a boy walking on the road
    to church carrying a bible
    a man walking in the purple light
    he disappears then appears again
    still trudging the road
    still with the book
    under his arm
    •
    the early dawn in lilac
    is every sacrifice unearthly horses
    •
    a crucifixion naked and nailed
    every cool morning a resurrection
    with one foot I carelessly break ice in the ditch
    •
    light is lilac
    I enter the church

    ~~~

    (in the room our heads nod
    as though admitting
    all modesty aside
    to knowledge and understanding
    our teeth chew our throats swallow
    •
    we promise our mouths
    they may talk on and on
    munch on and on and on
    •
    outside the house
    the wind gusts all of a sudden
    opening the door
    •
    a few dud leaves
    brown and curled under
    wander in and sit in a meek row
    on the very edge of the carpet)

    ~~~

    after sleep rising
    to the gaze of the mirror
    to the knowledge of the river
    •
    she walked there
    sometimes I met her
    •
    once I found her yellow scarf
    •
    I raised my hand
    but the sun shifted
    and she was gone
    •

    after death rising
    in the blue wind
    •
    after words

    •

    are you the bride
    am I just a lover flicker and hawk
    •
    sweet woman
    sweet women
    the sun curls over
    the water and the fields
    and the mountains
    where everything lies like a
    student priest
    •
    for you woman dear
    t he door to my heart opens
    we have learned the odds
    and have embraced them
    •
    the scent of lilacs in the purple air
    of far Russia and her pure words
    have been spoken twice over
    and she said give this unknown woman
    my lonely grave
    •

    and she said when I love I love
    try to understand how it is to live
    between the swords
    and the stars
    •
    on small scraps of paper she wrote
    the wonders of the inside of
    the head this woman the head
    of the poets of her time
    and she knows I’m a left-eyed man
    you don’t get to be a saint
    •
    seeking an end to memory
    •
    here’s the river again and the ice
    and Anna giving herself to love
    all garments fall from her
    but the garment of words
    •
    and what could be more beautiful
    than a woman clothed in words
    •

    while in another century in another country
    Emily Dickinson vaults the midnight horse
    and gallops to her love

    ~~~

    (the thin pale man on the road
    on the opposite side of the street
    what’ll I do to call him over
    to my side of the world
    what can I say yoohoo
    you man with the scrubby beard
    you erstwhile mennonite
    •
    he doesn’t turn his head of course
    I wish he would
    •
    look Friesen I say look here
    I have been to your house
    I have eaten your good food
    •
    now my plate is empty
    if I visit again will you
    fill my bowl with salad
    fill my cup with tea
    •
    and fill my ears with more words
    than I could ever hope for
    my eyes also
    that I may be comforted
    with the truth)
    •
    let’s say we can halt fear let’s say the music’s loud enough we
    can hear it on our skins…



A State of Grace
    Author’ s note:
    The children are:
    Brythyll (trout) 13–14 years old
    Laurence 12 years old
    Boy 7 years old
    Nan 4–5 years old
    Mother and father who appear generally as mere shadows in the story.
    The two grandfathers who are responsible for the children’s education. One teaches them music and mathematics. The other teaches everything else.
    The time is probably the thirties.
    The place probably Britain (a suburb of London?).
    •
    Deep pools full of green fishes – these are the words that come first to her mind upon waking, and they are not simply words, for looking down she can clearly see sinuous creatures flitting in and out of the waterweeds, and her fingers like so many pale cormorants fishing for them in the drowned sky.
    No-one has ever touched the sky, but there it is, as real as numbers which surely mean nothing at all without the fingers to count them on. As real as five-finger exercises up and down the keys, marching sometimes, sometimes dancing, white and black and white and