The War At Easter

The milk tastes off in wartime
Clammy on the tongue 
Even when you are so distant 
You can hardly hear the metal bend
You make galaktoboureko
So thick the shape returns
Wondering why Easter
Falls in archaic calendars 
Each year on new days
As if martyrdom were inexact in its demands
I imagine Medea’s tears
In thick and sweet and distilled stains 
When she learned she ate her young
Time Is a wolf, you say
And in one deft hand
Break another egg

Driving to Golgotha

Hang the washing sideways
she says with the crucifixion drawl
of dust eclipsing a copper beaten sun
centurions at hem and sleeve
makes a livelier kind of execution 
the snared bird scrape
wrist bone against
an enfilading chin
decaying like the silver halides
of old photographs

to a spit-edged, palsied shake

an ochre layer to prevent halation 
(the blistered, liminal glow
of blurred mirrors and sun dogged tv screens)
laved with the first soft breath of rain
in the liquorice blasphemy of her mouth
a grit like succour 

heaving dust-devil exhalations 

flows across the raw edged bitumen
a vine that bears
dead crows In efflorescence 

swerving wrist-break hard

the tread marks plain
as a slap