Myrrh

Myrrh

When the pulp on the block
was at last bled out
I looked past
the privy and shamble fence

To the clapboard church
and dog, chained yard patched in
burrs he having swallowed
the creek bank shard
and bones

When that pulp turned hollow
I saw the flint spark
of dry January nights red
eye dust on the sill
those stars counting four footed
spectres

So I chased the chain loose
from my porch and what stole
beyond the barrel bled
out in myrrh.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

This poem appeared in the book Nature published by Writing for Peace, 2015.