Eavan

We blot the pages of our own new dictionary
With guttural vows still in our throats,
Delighted when we discover accidental rhymes,
Protean through the lengthening hours,
Loosened by the nozzle.

In a story about drunken magicians,
No rabbits are left innocent in the hedgerow:
I am the real Cynara;
I jump while she dangles, and I am jealous
Of the price of the whore's breakfast.

Prostitutes and socialists clog the veins,
Bonded by a cold mimicry
And the familiar nausea that fades with sleep
At the third coming of the father-figure,
When the lies creep softer than lullabyes,
Spreading warmer than the pooling sheets.

No one sings about the suburbs anymore--
Blame settles on the delay in light
Displaced from astronomy to television sets
(it never arrived in time to fully sway);
The myths were born before we needed them.

Now the nicknames are relatively harmless,
Only dangerous in the mouths of
Ex-lovers and schoolgirls
Restless for a quick game of crucifixion--
A scar is a sign of healing, after all.