Poetry Issue 24


Philip Matthews

Crown and Crowning

             A voice bellows over the bath.
A mechanic nanny gives instructions
From a silver disk. I am meant to lay my son in like this, turtle shell
Wrapped in myrrh-sheets, mouth empty of water.
Contract laid between us
We are aware of as we sit down to breakfast. His limbs
Begin to grow, I hold him out. His limbs
Begin to shrink, I bathe him. It is a program
For which I am made, from which I am made
For this meat. He cries and he dreams
And is chastened. Five swords are plunged
Through his heart. He will pull a plan from his heart.
He will pull a cradle from his gut.
He will pull a servant from his head.

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