The
Fourth King
I could have done more, following
that star;
pausing, let my eyes wander, at
the oasis, though,
to other, closer flashings. Light on the gold
around a girl’s throat. The pomegranate’s myriad
redness, interior stars clotted
into fruit;
the way that water when it rises
from a well
weighs nothing in its sweet
necessity. The swell
of her breast as she
breathes. Night cold as a blade,
and all the other stars, though
never as bright,
strangely alluring in their alternative
light.
So, I stayed days and nights
among the travellers:
some with tangled slaves; others
rich in stories
alone; our opulence was limited
by our place
in the desert; we would fast
again before winter
had brightened off, as each chose
when to leave
this slivered ideal of a
paradise, no larger than
a small market in a dusty town;
but flourishing
this time in green and moist
insouciance, turned
against the blurring white hot
outwards at our faces.
Had I known what the others found
in that barn
I might not have traded
places. Their shy sunburnt
gaze fell upon a tiresome
greatness demanding action;
satiated, I stayed put in some
small Eden to grow old,
never wondering what the child
said or did or knows.
new poem for Christmas by Todd Swift
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