She

Rob Harris

By Her prose a palace built;

Diocletian, marble-carved.

Every verb sinks to the hilt

And settles there trailing silt

/

And I chip away grammar,

With Us in museum-lull.

Statues, bereft of  glamour,

Heave and burn, burst and stammer

/

Of ‘Distance’ (Your best defence),

With monologues tapping doubt

Into each surface; nouns tense,

Tasting such salt-permanence.

/

I dust Your indelibly

Sung radiant cadences

(me still now in minor key):

Ever monumental – She.

//

 

Dan Keir

helicon.magazine@gmail.com

© Helicon Magazine 2019

University of Bristol