"Am Moor"
from THE MASTER LETTERS
Am lean against.
Am the heavy hour
Hand at urge,
At the
verge of one. Am the ice comb of the tonsured
Hair, am the
second
Hand, halted, the velvet opera glove. Am slant. Am fen, the
injure
Wind at withins,
Stranger where the storm forms a face
if the body stands enough
In a weather this
Cripple & this
rough. Am shunt. Was moon-shaped helmet left
In bog, was
condition
Of a spirit shorn, childlike & herd. Was Andalusian,
ambsace,
Bird. Am kept.
Was keeper of the badly marred, was
furious done god, was
Patient, was bad
Luck, was nurse. Ninety
badly wounded men lay baying
In the reddened reedy
Hay of
Saxony, was surgeon to their flinch & hoop, was hospice
To their
torso hall,
Was numinous creature to their dying
Off. Am
numb.
Was shoulder & queer luck. Am among.
Was
gaunt.
Was--why--or the mutton & moss. Was the rented
room.
Was chamber & ambage
& tender & burn. Am esurient, was
the hungry form.
Am anatomy.
Was the bleating thing.
Excerpted from Master Letters by Lucie Brock-Broido. Copyright© 1997 by Lucie Brock-Broido. Excerpted by permission of Alred A. Knopf, Inc., a division of
Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Photo credit: Joyce Ravid.
