POEM OF THE DAY
A GREEN DAY
The King of March plucks
a green spike
from the nest of thorns
in his hair.
Drives it,
nail into slug,
into the hollow anvil,
his tongue,
and clucks
his rosary of scars,
a circle jerk
of incumbent scripture,
ancestral
to the sensible world.
He weeps to see a green day.
From a crow blackened distance
caws one red prayer:
It wears his grandmother’s rustle
and crepe.
The clutch
of this brood claw
rasps
across the skip
of his heart,
a drag of cardinal’s scarlet:
a flutter of eminence
in the blood.
His vampire, tucked
like a guitar
into its velvet coffin,
and locked inside his shed
of iron tears,
shivers
under its quilt
of warm tattoos.
It was a green day.
Dana Pattillo
PoD 89
6:33:51 PM 
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