Krista Canterbury Adams
Have pity—I hear paw steps on the path
behind me, radiant
in the sun-wood. I too have bent
soft paw against soft earth, blameless
against the call. I have seen you lie
at the feet of Andromeda, eager
to take up the star-path—from above
to mark out the white rocks
against the dark sand.
And yet the Old God groans,
growing rigid in among the thin twigs
& fern-grass. He stings,
beguiles with weeping scent.
We are fortunate—
no heaven above our salt-drenched bodies,
no stains on us to be found.
But quiet now,
let us stay quiet together
as he passes, hunting
his home, prowling
his earthly places. Neither fresh wave
he gives us nor blesses us
with cooling dew.
Let the sea paint over the sand,
let the dust remain on us, twined together
in marsh roots &
full of the drag of the moon.