EYETHURL - Lynn Crosbie Poems


Poems » lynn crosbie » eyethurl


Sometimes, at night,
when the north wind slams against the house
and downpipes shudder and whistle,
I climb steep attic steps to find
heart in a blank window.

A spindly chalkmark splits
the night's black sea
into two pools that wash
their water lights against the dark
and steep it in reflected depth.

Half in that shining face, half in
the mind's dark gleam,
I see a house -- mud hut
or boulder-stacked hovel, packed or scooped
from stubborn, primal rubble.

A thatched sty, its floor dug out
in mean husbandry of warmth and toil,
it sits below eye level:
door a black hole,
slit window in eclipse.

Inside, however, even November's
lead sky explodes
like lightning
through the framed chink --
hatch of a starburst, boxed galaxy.

Think of the heart
it took to cut that window
when a rigging of sticks in the firepit
kept death at bay: an age of tamed fire
curling in corners, scourge of the cold when thrown

wood scraps, licking up dark with nibbled
tallow, but easy prey
to a puff of wind.
They risked their fire
to catch a spark from the sky's wick.

"Eyethurl," the age's
word for window, having
no commerce with the deadly wind:
an eyehole drilled through stone to join
the mind's eye with the sky's.