The Latissimus Station

Days which were bitterly summer
were miracles as such.
I could not bear to remove
the keys of the blood, the hands
that sealed me in, the truth
that held me close, that antiquated kiss.

I locked myself into your open
side, your pierced wine-cask,
the hollowed-out steps in your body
whose last step is the peace
of your mouth.

Both stones and a wall, we were offered
as dead in the garden, so let’s
be dead: because I did not first
pour out water, you now
withhold your blood, releasing
each contraction like a bomb.

© Medbh McGuckian, The Latissimus Station, 1998, complete text, Shelmalier, 1998, The Gallery Press.

Medbh McGuckian’s subtle poem may refer obliquely to the backdrop of violence, or not.