Ash WednesdayJoe Hall
A third virgin carved from horn and This horn slowly beginning to branch Upward into the night like sad Quiet lightning? Mary, morning, noon And eve you yet conceive The soil on which an afterbirth is flung And what is pulled between her legs Her thighs and his hands and Your hands and my body Before the livestock’s impassive eyes Splinter of terror, splinter of awe—Mary If I am mud and water, mold me Into a pot, if I’m a pot, crack me—if I’m a cracked Pot, beat out a rhythm on me Bears will dance to it—Mary Make me useless
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