{ split subject }

via, like, everyone:
when you see this, post a little poetry in your lj.

Artemis
by Olga Broumas

Let’s not have tea. White wine
eases the mind along
the slopes
of the faithful body, helps

any memory once engraved
on the twin
chromosome ribbons, emerge, tentative
from the archaeology of an excised past.

I am a woman
who understands
the necessity of an impulse whose goal or origin
still lie beyond me. I keep the goat

for more
than the pastoral reasons. I work
in silver the tongue-like forms
that curve round a throat

an armpit, the upper
thigh, whose significance stirs in me
like a curviform alphabet
that defies

decoding, appears
to consist of vowels, beginning with O, the O-
mega, horseshow, the cave of sound.
What tiny fragments

Survive, mangled into our language.
I am a woman committed to
a politics
of transliteration, the methodology

of a mind
stunned at the suddenly possible shifts of meaning — for which
like amnesiacs

in a ward on fire, we must
find words
or burn.

Things you should know:
* school is hurting me. grading papers. you may not hear from me for a while. but I love you.
* nevertheless, oven timer almost up on simmering post.
* I love you so much that I am looking into how to merge the lj and the blog, because I have nothing to say to those (people). stay tuned.
* Clyde is impossibly good to me. And s/he has an adorable laugh.