for the Norwegian Saint Thomas
If I were a unit of lore,
A silky seed secluded in the core
Of the fruit of our knowledge tree,
Would you discard me, or acknowledge me?
A burden’s worth its weight in thought.
And any man demanding might purport,
But there’s no heat burns hot enough
To convince since conviction’s not enough.
If God were a cat in a box,
And only you held the key to its locks
But your husband had forbidden
You: would you let that cat yet lie hidden?
Saint Thomas knew that blood was wet,
Having bled once, he could hardly forget;
But on examining his twin,
Felt just scars: constellations on his skin.
If love were a beast in a wood,
Would you let a silver bullet
And its tracks were trod deep into the mud,
Fly from your raw chamber to its gullet?
There is no true antonym for
Truth, beauty, love, God or esprit de corps;
But ask any labour of moles:
The equator’s opposites are the poles.
If proof were a point on a chart,
But borders were as real as fears,
And dragons were but flutters in your heart
Would you shed your skin or drink your own tears?
Rhymes for all times