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Saint Max

Noah Leznoff
From:   Why We Go To Zoos. Toronto: Insomniac Press, 1997.


Brother of wild-wing
beating, your blue skin burnt
to wind-light ash,
I would gather you in my arms
like a pile of leaves,
   shape a hillock to smother
in a blanket, to roll and unroll
on the ground

and    kneeling I'd unwrap you
scrub the red
from your elbows, from your
scalp smouldering and smelling
of potatoes;
I'd take the ember,
   cool it in my mouth, kiss
too the blisters rising in
your eyes and the black lips
praying for immolation

Yeah I'll douse you, gods'
   half-man, so he may sit
like a good brother
and between breakfasts of mute
benediction count
the gentle candles of
   his toes



Noah Leznoff's works copyright © to the author.


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