Did my pain first waltz through blue-white arches of Ugarit?
Or was it brewed in the stone cauldrons of a nameless desert city?
Were the wounds on my skin a form of starry cuneiform?
My brother Osiris, my husband Osiris,
Your club and your spear and your priestly tiger skins,
You should have let me remain a pale yellow star.
And leave my bow and arrow in the Temple of the Obelisks,
In a constellation of citadels under Mary's blue cloak.
It's the humble smallness of Aleppo hares,
That stills and soothes me as the Time collapses on itself.
Sky-earth hares, scorching desert hares, gentle hares,
And Orion the Hunter, marching through the triple gates.
Would you enter the mind of an Aleppo hare?
It must have all begun with the Shining:
A great ethereal Shining in the mists of pre-history.
A half-forgotten dream which has become a nightmare.
Trickling blood and semen and nightshade gauze,
Pain is a garden of velvety black tulips and red baby roses.
Under the neon lights, I can feel our Gods coming back.
Now they murmur, now they roar in the fairy land of museums,
Lost amidst Florentine Madonnas, Warhols, Max Ernst.
Find the safety in the unassuming simplicity of Aleppo hares,
So the breast of Orion the Hunter births a new world.
Copyright © Diana Thoresen | Year Posted 2019