Llewellyn McKernan
White
lives in the mandrake root,
the eastern star, what holds the pupil
in the eye. It raped Leda,
took over the eraser, the Abominable
Snowman’s shaggy tracks. Some
blood cells hold it fast. “I am pleased,”
says the sky, “with my Milky
Way and the milkweed pod your lips
breathe on.” And what about
the white scum from the run-off,
the thumb hitching a ride to nowhere, one
of the stripes on a zebra, the curl
of the tide, the dark click
that turns on the light, pure milk from
the breast, a mountain of salt for all seasons.
Other work by Llewellyn McKernan