The Poetry of Barbara Claire Freeman

ST. URSULA’S HORSE I was not a horse you were not a man then my flank turned to take the spear hooves held ground till you walked away didn’t know you’d lived until at 3 a.m. the world began to bleed That it was a death without rapture does not matter That I died without a name does not matter That obedience is good for the soul does not matter but that a man cannot marry a horse matters If while you are gardening, laughing, praying, or playing tennis the body of something familiar and beloved but not human returns If your throat constricts if your muscles will not function if your feet get so swollen you can’t take a step – then you will know heart’s blood I was the horse you could not marry because a man cannot marry a horse but I was your horse

THE APOCHRYPHON OF ST. URSULA X 1, 1-68, 18 You asked that I send the secret book to a post office box near the airport. I am not certain you will be able to open this attachment or if our platforms are compatible, but I could not gainsay you. I have translated this into the obscure language we learned at the camp that has neither vowels nor consonants so you will be the lone interlocutor. Remember, beloved: the book was given to me under circumstances known only to you. It is like an ear of grain printed in many colors. The earth is yours to scan. Train only those who were never given names. I 16, 31-34, 34 Shut up in a house of fire bound with toxic [...] lying [...] chanting [...] N33- Then in [...] faith [...]. And you said “[...] able to be saved?” You received [...] intel reports. What is 4AA called “The [...] unbegotten,” because you [...] down 10:06 a.m. 93 The [...] created man. [...men] listed [...] as destroyed III 120, 1-147, 23 Terror did not come into the world naked, but in carry-on bags and tropes. Nothing covered will remain; life is water, not stone. Low means green, blue guarded, elevated yellow, orange high, severe white. Dry, papery leaves cannot absorb the risk of colors; a stone tablet is more reliable than a hard-drive. It is possible the compiler disjointed what were once whole paragraphs, burying pieces in various bodies. Stones have traces, not origins. Beware of solvents, counterfeit spirits, the fragrance of honey. The book is hidden in the book, where you will find me. V 17, 19-24, 9 He whose names are invisible symbols is unbegotten, unbegun. Whoever has a name is the creation of another, like those who shoot their arrows after dark. Everyone born at the facility (pages 11 and 777 are missing, replaced with corresponding sections from the 175 codex [no.365]) will perish at the facility. Simple numbers weaken the resolve of our allies, moonlight morphs and spreads into the pattern catastrophe management attempts to avert. The magnetic charges weaken, corrupt, and finally erase all data, but hidden is the perfect day. VI 1, 1-12, 22 Oxytones exist among the vowels, diphthongs subordinate. Sounds of the [semi- vowels] are superior to [square brackets indicate lacuna] voiceless consonants. Any file stored more than eight years is doomed: back- up or die. Consonants crowd the vowels; they are commanded, and they submit. They constitute the nomenclature of the [ <virtual jihad cannot> be divided] angels. Consonants surrender to the [hidden gods] by means of beat, pitch, silence, impulse. Summon the separations <by> a mark and a point. A number in bold type indicates a new page; small strokes, line divisions; V-shaped brackets signify [...] 9 great thunder. Seven megabytes of storage equal the shadow of Alexandria. VI 13, 1-21, 32 Shadows defective because they take their form from what they copy. The air around the crypt is air, the earth around the root is earth. The fire around the esplanade waits, the water around the detonator, water. If you fax, attach, or photograph this text without permission from the unbegotten one who hides in silence you will be its replica. I 43, 25-50, 18 I hesitate to print, but if it crashes so too the archive. Old data orphaned. Type the words on steles of turquoise, carve his name on the azure tablet, upon the form of wax impress an emerald likeness, and set them in the sanctuary. Avert catastrophic system failures when the sun is in Virgo at zero degrees and unearly summer shines. Promise to write a promise in a script that cannot be deciphered lest those who read reject their fate. Signs are never symbols, save in flight. VII 1, 1-49, 9 The present is divided into years into seasons into months into days into syllables, as roots spread beneath trees, as a body is divided by explosives. He alone is undivided. Division takes place in Wordstar or DeScribe, but brackets cannot divide the word. We, too, are one. II 51, 29-86, 19 Their luxury is deception. Their trees are godless. Their souls, facsimiles. Their fruit, poison. Their calls for amnesty, lies. Their sleeper cells metastasize in darkness, their place of rest. Installing trace detection portals is part of the pattern. Burying alphabets in the sky is part of the pattern. Waiting until better shadows are available is part of the pattern. There are no accidents, no portents. Crushing percocet and apples is part of the pattern. Let birds fall where they may. VIII 132, 10-140, 27 Face to face tongue broken sleepless bound with silence [...] hanging [...] trembling [...] N33 - hunts me down [...]. And you said “[...] find the black sea?” Solar flare [...] among ghosts. You 4AA far from me when [I am] [...] near you [...] unkind 11:59 p.m. 93 Paler [...] than dry grass when September [...] underground V 17, 19-24, 9 He whose names are invisible symbols is unbegotten, unbegun. Whoever has a name is the creation of another, like those who shoot their arrows after dark. Everyone born at the facility (pages 11 and 777 are missing, replaced with corresponding sections from the 175 codex [no.365]) will perish at the facility. Simple numbers weaken the resolve of our allies, moonlight morphs and spreads into the pattern catastrophe management attempts to avert. The magnetic charges weaken, corrupt, and finally erase all data, but hidden is the perfect day.

EPILOGUE: “THE DESERT HAS TWELVE THINGS” Close the book to re-enter the book. Beware of wells; they are not always deep. Inter the bones between the word. Seek a single letter, clear as frost in the long grass. Within the whiteness of a page, the black of days. Enter the well whose sign the center was: a scripture that obtains only if God is a stranger from Himself. The leaves of the book float face down.

ST. URSULA’S HORSE You write “with” and “against,” the year turns into a horse tracing canter-pirouettes on a surface of ember and ash. The code connects the impossible; too many voices insist that words lying next to each other may be friends or opposites, that land lying next to a city is memory, that foundations can be kept from slipping, that the gilt-edged mirror will reflect the horse’s shadow in a beginning that does not begin. Record it again so you hear the perfection of time touch down on a circle with four hoof- prints, moments in the rectangular arena, and your aversion to writing a prefix such as “con” that adds force to the root idea, as in “conflagration,” in a beginning that does not begin. I am riding a silver rocking-horse in a fairy-tale that can’t begin to describe how Pegasus, born of Demeter, was blinded but survived a disaster you did not know, have never known – but fire as it ends and begins in fire – how his mane shone in refracted light.