Michael Pollick Poetry

'Lo, all these things worketh God oftentimes with man,/To bring back his soul from the pit, to be enlightened with the light of the living' (Job 33: 29,30)


Somewhere in the white hot core of the Dancer's spirit
lie the remnants of too much vision,
lies the residue of a thousand broken treaties:
lies the child who bartered with discount Angels.

She will no longer mistake the gardeners for her Messiahs.

Be careful child, you're wading in the holy water,
Be careful child, you're kicking up the dust;
Be careful child, you're dancing like the Devil's Daughter,
Be careful child, your sins are being discussed.

They have collected the price
of your redemption
in their chicken buckets,
They have rattled their
indifferent tambourines
in hopes of corporate sponsorship
of the Dancer's healing powers.

(They have torn the veils of your renegade temple.)

I should have tried to stop them, my tortured Sister;
I should have whistled louder at the graveyard-

but my salves have all
turned to guiltless dust,
and you became another
brother to the Dragon,
companion to the Owl,

before my swollen eyes.

Poet: Michael Pollick