John Swain

The Inside of a Jar

End of the wilderness

at our cross purpose,

this scabrous city.

The farther fluid fathering sky

let chaotic waters

pressure the stones into law.

And all of the sons became his executioner

and all of the daughters were born widows.

I laid in the place

where the bones were removed

from both the fallen animal and its ground.

The lock of this altar

provided your face with an eye

of blue natron,

I tasted its taste

like the inside of a broken jar

I could not enter

or decipher its meaning.

 

 

John Swain-

Cupbearer

The cover morn 

lifts in a light

the shape of prey

afeared to sleep

through the kill.

I am learning

to only serve you

with my life

like a cupbearer

sips for poison

with a loyalty

never questioned.

Birds strayed

beyond sky gates

like the pool

of a fountain

where I drew water

for your bathing.

Heaven to the Low

A recess suggested

behind the juniper

by a friend disguised

with occasional love

we could not fully share.

I dug at the stones

worn with age

like a man

to hide disappointment

and unfreedom

in the limited way

we must converse.

Sick and weakened

I cannot draw

the same pull

from the black thread

connecting like a beacon kite

every heaven to the low.


John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His most recent chapbook, White Vases, was published by Crisis Chronicles Press.