Spring 2010

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 1


Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

James Scannell McCormick


Paper-White Narcissus

Tomb-flower, rigid as a kouros, and as smug,
Vain as your namesake, set in stones (thus
Bounden, like Adam, in his sin), as the days lag
At the winter solstice, you send (what else

To call it?) the Odor of Sanctity to
Heaven, though at heart, you harbor
Death: in spring no beast will touch you,
And the word for your name comes from nowhere.

You flower by force and so eat
Yourself. Green-fingered, digit-thin, you wear
A Dutch ruff, a pale crown of trumpets
To blare to Judgment Day, the new year:

It’s an echo of that. And at no other time—not even
Spring—does your otherworldly fragrance,
Diffused through all rooms, trouble as now in
Winter, neither the Savior yet arrived, nor peace.


© James Scannell McCormick



Poetry    Fiction    Reviews   

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