The Machine

WHALE SONGS
—Miroslav Holub

At two o'clock in the morning
I hear my mitral valve
from the depth of the dim, blood-filled tunnel
which is me. Cellular receptors
fit with a metallic click and the locks are me.
From some symphonic distance
there sounds the song of the whales,
and it contains me.

In some black castle
Sleeping Beauty has pricked herself on a thorn,
which is me. The clock has stopped
—in our house clocks stop any moment
because she pricks herself any moment,
on a tiny crock,
on a word,
on a milk tooth,
on a toy that fell into the gutter—
and so there's a still life, nature morte,
with me in the genetic background.

A paper kite stiffens in the air,
however, Einstein says, Time is always going, but never gone,
however, my mother says, ten years after her death,
Oh yes, oh yes,
and a clock starts again,
the invisible passes through the room like a ball of lightning,
Sleeping Beauty lays eggs full of little spiders,
the whales re-enter the tunnel

and I start again
being the machine
for the production
of myself.

_______________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry, photos and art, and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)