Darrah’s Honywine

Darrah sits with the scale in her hand

To measure the earth.—

To measure the sand.

Darrah is wooed by the preacher

Whose claims are of a certain sort

But Darrah belongs to the preacher whom wields her lips

To drink of her tongue and honeywine.


How the preacher drinks Darrah’s bosom

To spit it back out…

Because Darrah’s hidden parcel

Belongs more to the pleasant reverie

Told by a fireside

Than in any serious, fatal matter.


Darrah cannot sway the heart.

She cannot cause the doubtful to stop erring.

She, rather, is a swathed betrothed

Whom when asked a question she can answer.

But if Christ can not be seen in the stars

What is her answer to the one blinded

Whose ears see half of all words?


Let the preacher preach kindness

And love.

Let Darrah’s love be told by the fireside

So the little ones do not hear and stumble

When an answer is given.

Who, though, understands the answer?

Certainly not the ones asking questions

They need not answers to.

Not yet. Though this preacher corroborated Darrah’s

Lips, which she whispered into my ear,

Let the sucklings drink milk from Darrah’s bosom

And not the raw rootvegetable

With its skin.

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