By: Thomas Doerksen
Sitting in the blue snow
Hoods of geese lurk in the river’s wardrobe.
The winter branches comb the night wind,
its low moaning sifts away the grit of my distraught
that clogged in the day’s flow.
In the twilight of the western horizon
a giant purple rose is closing her petals.
The blinking moon watches. He pours
sighs into the valley basin.
High beyond, the stars are waiting for me.
They will wait forever.
All arthritis and puffy pads,
she jostles through the snow.
Her snuffling nose meets my gentle hand,
hairy chest rest against sturdy legs,
each a flame for the other.
We go together lost
in the sunlight and ice-jewelled trees.
She seeks master and home,
turns down a path of sagging bushes.
We watch each other in silence
before parting on the long voyage
of our lives
and I can see in her eyes
that she understands.
Deus ex machina
The crossbow of the Sun—perfect,
a searing circle—hammers a ray into my chest.
I cry out as clouds scuff the bare trees.
The Sun, a gash,
gushes out molten revelation
through the black veil of space.
The godhead’s star-spanning hands
hold apart the sluice gates
between Being and nonbeing.
The magmatic good pitches into the universe’s
lonely pit. My god, my literal Sun,
fountain of blindness starting everything,
sending flamelets along the clouds
like a signal across ramparts.
This holy screaming song hangs
over the spikes of tonight’s moat. Star,
shred with visible transcendence
into this sandpit of black,
pour coronas into this crucible
of cold flesh, enter me,
raise me to your gargantuan life.
Embers catch in the fusion of my heart,
crucified core. This weeping,
this gratitude of weeping:
the bronze-armoured god scudding down steps of sky
into the screams of this world’s siege
catches me as I fall.
body made of clarity and voice,
clarity of lips, lightning of the eyes,
tenderness that is mine,
tenderness of an other inside me,
tenderness between us inside me,
numb hands of stone, black lake of the lap,
wings of pain, hands of the self that holds,
translucency of the trunk, translucency
of the blood, breast of the self that is held,
the earth of the feet, mirrors,
mirrors as vast as space in the puddle’s image,
all things made of clarity and voice,
woman pressed to my heart,
remembrance of being, breathless remembrance
of another summer like the first,
woman pressed to the blood,
nudity of presence, godlike presence,
ceremony of marriage, marriage of voice and clarity,
body clear in remembrance of a vow,
a vow taken at the beginning,
vow of pure fire, vow of triumph,
vow to ignite all things in love
Thomas has masters in organic chemistry and in philosophy, and is working on a PhD in critical philosophy. His work explores metaphysical themes rooted in experiences of nature and history.
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