Art

January 15th – Nicholas Dolinger

This is the morning song of my patron saint,
whose holiday will pass without occasion.
My gift—the lingerie which sits unworn;
the slaughtered lamb is frozen for her feast
and will remain until the sun returns
on the purple morning when she comes to greet.

King David—once petulant and green,
transfixed and holding all his will upon
the love that is more horrible than hate,
composed a different song in her memory:
Awake, dear Flacka, and look upon this dawn!
The year of wretchedness has now elapsed;
before us is wine, celebration and good food,
the promise of peace and family once again.
Open your eyes to the true and obvious,
to see the light streaming through the blinds,
and I will make new photographs of crooked teeth.
For her he has become gentle and chaste,
with just and different notions echoing,
now dedicated to a watery temper
and idly casting stones at brawny pride.

I twisted my mind to reconcile
her bitter grimace and the glowing grin,
the prophecies unanswered in the cold,
the words of annihilation from her sweet voice.
If never to see her Mayan face again,
if never in the Pampas or New York,
I will fullfill my promises (I do)—
never again to vomit yellow bile,
or to profane her sacred name
or take a mistress as an armament—
to keep the faith in her who was so sweet,
even with dread of life on earth apart
on every accursed morning which may come.