The National Catholic Review
Mary Karr

From the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold inched in--black ice and blood ink--
till the hung flesh was empty. Lonely in that void
even for pain, he missed his splintered feet,
the human stare buried in his face.
He ached for two hands made of meat
he could reach to the end of.
In the corpse's core, the stone fist of his heart

Began to bang on the stiff chestâs door,
and breath spilled back into that battered shape. Now
itâs your limbs he longs to flow into--
from the sunflower center in your chest
outward--as warm water
shatters at birth, rivering every way.

From Sinners Welcome (HarperCollins, 2006).
Reprinted with permission.

Comments

Bill Collier | 9/23/2011 - 4:09pm
What a powerful poem! "Now it is your limbs he longs to flow into" will be ringing in my ears for the rest of the day.

I enjoyed "Lit" and "The Liar's Club," and I'll have to read more of Ms. Karr's poetry.