By Judith Fitzgerald May 27, 2008, 10:53 GMT
He inclines his head towards midnight's guttering clashes,acutely intuits his role in this tiny tableau her pitched darkness, restively keyed to the art of damage(or drama, tires screaming, the spectral careening glazingher panic dread automatic smudge of violet swellsmarrying vague horizons her personal hell exposed his hand held just so, hers shielding face from lips to lashes).Oh, God, he loves her. He's sorry. He's a fucking monster.She reaches out to someone who cannot hear nor help herbecause the roar of the ocean swallows voices and crieswith astonishing swiftness, with supreme disinterestin all-too-familiar reenactments of primevalbrutalities beyond comprehension Chrysanthemums?Jesus, recall all those wild Irish roses brambling hairand skin, their bloodless petals sharply crimson and brilliantin their absolute faith beauty's future remains secure?It gathers ice-rough raindrops pooling beneath blankened skyin its arms, its articulated layers unfoldingdusk-deep colour fastening stem to starblight, first yellow-gangrene, now, indigo-mauve broken. The ocean a ghostmirror in denial roaring its growling stamina its inexorably seductive pull embattlingthe only way out out of the question the only wayback to healing leaving love alone to fend for itselfin the bruised rainbow of bituminous rage-blasted eye.
Canadian poet and literary critic Judith Fitzgerald's critically acclaimed Adagios Quartet's BOOK III: Electra's Benison has just been named one of The Globe and Mail's TOP 100 BOOKS (2007).
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