Incantation by Stephen Scott Whitaker02 May 2017, Posted by Poetry in
The bones are mine
and the cookie cutters
and ripe smell of the compost
and the dress curling at my ankles is mine.
The tattoo of the shark,
and the elephant static
and electric whistles of the radio
echoing up, up though the house
And I am the house, and the chair rails,
and the sunlight gathering its knickers,
and I am father and tall wife.
And the poles that gather the dead are mine,
their sleepy knuckles knocking
are my own, own, own,
and oh, the crone in the attic is also mine
and the hairs on her chinny, chin, chin are mine,
and the small dark at the bottom of the stairs
and the voice singing
love on the radio is mine,
And the synaptic rush is mine,
and the street scuttle
and the hoary frost on the windows,
and the brusque wind,
and the sharp wrap of the teacher’s ruler
And I am the cord around yr neck,
and the smell of powder in the air.
The death crushes are all mine
and the teeth that grow where teeth should not
and the firearms and broken wheels
and umbrellas turned up like sores,
And the eye back nails are mine,
and the bowl is mine,
and the spear is mine,
and the light beyond the shutter ribs is mine,
And this is my bag,
and these papers are mine,
and there is nothing that I won’t love
and that is mine, mine, mine.
About the author:
Stephen Scott Whitaker is a member of National Book Critics Circle, and managing editor of The Broadkill Review. His poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in dozens of publications including Oxford Poetry, Anderbo, Grub Street, and others. Whitaker’s collection and chapbooks include: All My Rowdy Friends, The Black Narrows, the award winning Field Recordings, and The Barleyhouse Letters. He lives on the Eastern Shore of Virginia with his family.