Apotheosis I-Apotheosis as an Eagle (for A.D. Hope) I should like to die the death of a bird, To end as an arch into something, A central star Falling but immovable. The death of a bird is the death of a king, So high that the fall is unbelievable as fire Unfaded by the realities of rigor mortis (Stone effigies are soul images not bodies in ice). The death of a

The March of Time The march of time Is all that is left to her now It is an all encompassing Ecstatic religion for her. Silent, military in precision Her life is counted out In beats of unnoticed salutations. She is sacred now To the god of death And as she approaches the mystery She must, like all initiates, learn its language. They fear her now For her knowledge of that

A.B. Miriam Thyme IX: Heaven, Hell, Purgatory I I am a vulture, Picking over old blood, Old magic, Someone else’s death, To make a new alchemy of dust, An empire of paper, And unrealised dreams. The bones of the lion Are cold, I dress its sinews In a palatable light Of barbarism. Feeding to the unbelievers (Who eat the flesh) The thought that the lion is alive. II We are eaters

Hermione: Age 16* The car kicks up ochre dust like an angry child, making bird clouds of red against the perfect sky. It’s a city car. You can tell by the newness of the dirt that freckles its side like makeup. The wheels are warm. You can feel it from here, the rubber is expectant as a horse bit. The car is smoothly impractical, gliding along like an ornate black insect,

The Birth of Artemis* There in the ochre sky-paint of old dust Lay the child Like an unraveled ball of precious thread, Without a tear, Silky with the fluidic ichor of a god’s birth. Now she is anchored Like a pit to the moon Into rocky reality, Now she is grafted like a tear to the face. All the swirling Inner light Of the cosmic womb Gone… The sky is flecked