Like a pilgrim
Commemorating Loreto,
She bears this talisman,
This amulet on the skin,
At the boundary.
Like a Marquesan
Wearing the gods
Inside-out,
Pricked and stamped
With the stigmata,
Branded
For the purposes of the heart.
She carves her scrimshaw dreams
From the narwhal’s horn
Of plenty,
And the voyage continues
Who knows where…
Like a Thracian maenad
On a lekythos,
With a deer on her arm,
As she takes the sword to Orpheus.
Like a Celtic saint,
Skin-scriptured with graces,
Becoming a folio,
A palimpsest.
The occultist etches himself with sigils
To beweird the world,
Drawing down the planets
With their hands.
The thoughts of the skin
Are deep beyond measure,
Fathoms and fathoms,
South Seas for all.
So welcome the veil,
Honour the hymen,
Like the messmates on Cook’s second voyage,
Who, admiring the warriors
Of Bora Bora,
Banded together and blazoned their bodies
With a star on the left breast,
And dubbed themselves
The Knights of Otaheite.
Like a convict in Van Dieman’s Land
With an anchor on his arm,
Praying for safe return home.
Out of the pain,
The transforming wounds,
She arises,
All self and soul,
Playing with secrets,
Forced to make her own face.
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