Marissa Glover, “History Is Now and England

History Is Now and England

Marissa Glover

Knuckles white— tight on a turning wheel, plowing across a bridge that spans four thousand years.

Hands clutch a brittle clay, searching for sculptures lost to repeating winters— the potter knows his work is wrecked.

The priest-king and dancing girl beckon the faithful: Ishmael has come home to Isaac. The sins of the father are visited on the sons.

An overturned cart as collateral damage, cut flowers litter the street: roses, tulips, nasturtium— tansy, poppies, hyssop—lilies, hyacinth, willow.

This is the death of air. Any action is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat.

Watch the peepal leaves stir. Sacred bark cannot stanch the bleeding. We need the absent wind to blow.