October 1, 2014 at 8:25 am (Dani Clark, Poetry)


I brushed my finger inside a black burial hole

on the tufa and wanted someone in the earth


with me, to speak about the end of early

Christianity, the advent of temporal power,


the Good Shepherd, the spirit doves and why

dulcis seemed such an easy lapidary word.


The rock was soft when they dug the graves.

It hardened later when the marauders came


with purpose of archeology, cataloguing and

exposing bones and brittle death, not theirs.


The long shafts of light are few, but they are,

enough to illumine ways, those gaping holes


with no martyred bodies to scream at, wonder

where, like she did, the first, the Magdalene.


– Dani Clark


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