A Kind Of Catechism

Betsy Struthers
From:   Virgin Territory. Wolsak & Wynn, 1996.

Without the moon the sky
a sieve of starlight. Without a breeze the lake
a silver plate cupped in the hills' dark hands.
What has brought us down through the tunnel of trees
where nothing scurries or buzzes or squeaks
but holds its breath, on tiptoe, eyes unblinking?
What has taught us that words will only sully
the dispensation wine has blessed us with
to strip and lower ourselves without ripple or gasp
naked over the dock into water warmer than the air?
What draws us out from the shadows of the shore,
fingers and feet move barely enough to stay afloat
flat on our backs, arms spread to embrace the aurora
that shimmers and flares from the northern horizon,
thrilling the universe with a green and rosy pulse
that moves us also beyond the touch of a lover's hand,
your hand coaxing my lips to open, my arms and legs
hugging you, holding you in, pulling you under
with me anointed by this flood that loosens our tongues
into vowels of praise, avowals of naming. Who are we
to honour in this way? Who are we
to be so honoured?

Poem 1 | Poem 2 | Poem 3 | Poem 4 | Poem 5 | Poem 6

Betsy Struthers's works copyright © to the author.