KUNSTKAMMER

 

The field has eyes, the woods have ears,

                                                                             I will see, be silent, and hear.

                                                                                                         -Flemish proverb

I.

And what spoor have you followed

when you went hunting in the night?

this Kunstkammer’s relics of the wild

 

reassemble your eye’s blue pursuit

of the gazelle’s femur. Here, a bone

splinter resumes her flight in air.

 

The shaft you let loose lodged into her

left shoulder blade. The bright ribbon

of her blood seeped into black, wet leaves.

 

Where she fell, your breath hot on her nape,

you found feathers. A storm had thundered

through the trees. And you, innocenced

 

into wonder, gathered bounty of flesh,

bones, quill by shining quill, home.

 

II.

There’s no figuring this wilderness

in us, lost in the summer thunderstorm

in the red eyes of a great she-wolf.

 

Earless woods, no one listens to old proverbs anymore.

Neither does anyone believe in the gravity of tales

once told at bedtime before dream to children.

 

Time slides past perfect when a dog

crashes head-on to a van’s cold muzzle.

We stand silent under a black umbrella,

 

knuckle-white freezing, watching it:

a no-sequence, seemingly inconsequential

road kill on a highway entering Bogotá.

 

Crossed earth, tierra cruzada, eyeless fields.

There are no crosses for any dead here.

 

III.

You’ve seen Heironymous after flying away from

their hell and their heaven into his garden

de las delicias. With what eyes and ears of wonder!

 

No, not still lives but rondels of joy, round

songs on open mouths, all orifices taking

to delight, without sign of slack or slander.

 

In Bosch’s middleway, figures dance, con-

figuring the great spiral of the seasons.

Everything tastes with tongues of flame:

 

flamingoes, fire salamanders, blood corals,

beasts, birds, men, women, restore themselves

unto themselves as they go round the waters.

 

In this garden, strawberries have ripened.

Berry by one red berry picked, partaken.

 

 

Marjorie Evasco