Making Widows Wince

Bleeding warmth to savage winds I lean against the coastlines bend… Against the sea, the farthest pale, I push against the winters swell. I pull myself into the wind until the lee is lost again and that which may be there Is left for me to find it. No whale or shoal upon this sea Will stop to bind or hinder me Unless the craven crawl returns me safely to the leeward shore. Michael S Brady

Holiday Goat                                                                                                       In fields that spring the newborns played, By summer all the doelings caged Now only sheep remain at graze To see the coming winter. From the old I take the young And leave the damned to mourn the loss In faith that ritual sacrifice Will ease this doubt I’m given to. Sheltered under broken rock  Yet high above the thing to come I edge the razor with a strap And dream of two door-ed Cadillac’s. From here the harshness shines in waves To break on meat that smells of salt And colors bruised to bloody rust, (A grit that slowly wears in time.) Winged and weightless the flies hover, Sure that in the intensity of sheen A sweetness is upon them, Just as I mistake the agony of effort For a prayer of submission. Razor strapped and polished slab I cleanse to myth my ruthlessness. Mike Brady 2010 (revised 3/12)