MD Kerr

Song for the Wounded


Under the figs, in the evening, I read your prophecies, John,
and remembered how the curling, gleaming nest of vipers shone
in the desert sun above us, when I arched like an olive tree
in the shade of the rocks, before I knew how many you’d had like me

—but not like me, Salome, I’ll dance tonight for your head
and they’ll see my side when I’m famous and you’re dead.

flourish Text of the poem on a sandy coloured background