Struck to the core, the heart’s red core again by
Liardet’s
Self Portrait as Shamdeo – misread as Shenandoah – Talking
to his Future Self as
if facing two antagonists: Ferocity and Sorrow.
I comb the jasmine, waterlily in my hair, rub bristles on my jaw.
Removed from this apparent world, pursued by
gods of earth
and air, setterragic a ssalc my demon pack of
backward-hunting
carnivores, smoky spirits of the
claw, jacketed in ash,
foul-breathed in wide, extraordinary yawning, we lick our paws.
Tormented by a yap of Alpha Dog or Sophia’s
dream –
sweet reason that devolves from dust, the twisters of thrilled air
tunnelling through Roman gardens,
Parthenon, theatres empty
of the dead, long gone but in their stead a debt of anguish
and self-loathing. How wearisome you
are. Raised up on all fours
now again, back on two naked feet, you make such shaky progress
to your clothes lines on the brink, the water's
edge where hangs
a scarecrow’s skin, your battered coat removed so long ago
you struggle to adorn yourself with human
clothes again.
Contemplate your place with men. I whine and fawn, nip your heels.
You draw me back and hold me
down. Struggling twin entities
squabble over worry bones, our painted knuckles on dirt floors
scattering our grammar from the first
recorded text. Let me
write it slant-wise in the mirror sweat: Red in tooth and
claw,
the neighbour at the door, the baying
dog who knows you well,
can only be your own reflection.
