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The Doubled Organs

Lungs, kidneys, testes,

the eyes, fine-spun apparatus

of the middle & inner ear;

no chronology in the

body’s bilateral symmetry.

Remember the tombstones

made of flame, the flesh-

pistons of the starlings

lifting from the field at dawn.

You cannot pass. You

cannot touch, with the hand,

certain edges of the body.

A ladder is a vertical

rigor, love’s imperfect

tense. Strengthen the debt,

the myriad attractions.

Preposition vs. proposition,

when God is watching

vs. when God is “when.”

As a door opens or closes

seemingly by itself

means a storm is coming.

What is found vs. what

is believed to have been lost.

When we walk on water

it means the water’s ice.

Repent of the whole body

on the body’s grounds:

a mansion, richly appointed.

Here is a golden lamb, &

here is the fingernail

of a saint. The soul walks

into the body the way

three men walk into a bar,

only it is no joke. You

cannot pass. The starlings’

flailing ore against the wind’s

dumb recompense, a red

depth, like light or volume.

When we were children

we played in the cemetery.

We leapt over the stones.

Love lathes love’s blue

accident, its Caesar-throne.

Be as gold, be vitrine. As one

impressed for mourning.

from Poetry Northwest 09.2 Winter & Spring 2015More by G. C. Waldrep from the library

Copyright © G. C. Waldrep
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

Published in G.C. Waldrep Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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