William Wright
~
Mountain Spell
It comes to me in fragments, a magnificent dark
and a final sense I belong
to wild onion and sassafras and other divinations
of autumn stems—
Each day I’ll fall to it, chewing my lips
till they bleed, and my right hand
trembles cold as though it is submerged
in the old wild Shannon
of my long-dead kin, and I will see
the sky wilt like a lilac flower
and a thunder will come, more a bell
than a rumble—and I have told
only you, for I find it no devilment—
I need no demon-siphoner,
for this magic comes from some history
twisting up bright and green
and I wish for it to keep on placing
on my tongue the ghost-sweetness
of honey, and I wish for it to shake me
till my eyes rattle in my head like a gourd—
and I wish for it to raise my sleep
into the glory of a deep rain
all night, until I wake and bear again
the broken clarity of morning.
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