I rise to meet the quiet
of the lull you break
inside me in the stalwart
stillness of my soul:
for where winds hath
howled between what’s
left standing; announced
the roof that burned and
fell, I have also felt the air
lie still and Circumspect
as sunset on the prairie
I despise as empty, but
God insists is Full.
There is a collection of
anecdotes here functioning
as Walls: a ruin full enough
to wonder not at what it
shelters but might instead
reveal in the subtle grace
of scrub brush underfoot;
its words arranged upon
each blade in the dust left
by the ready wash of dew.
The questions posed are
many– even the Morning
rises as a challenge to
our waking once again
to rafters barren of their
collar beam; a ridge piece
the only thing between
my head and the caving
of it in at the crux of what's
been left behind by the licking
love of flame. The stars, too
join conspiracies to damn
us in their asking why the
moon watches you sleep–
can't you find a way to hide
yourself away from the
evisceration of what others
lay safely beneath the
flannel coverlet of names
spoken aloud; consequences
of your actions awarding
worth to your intention;
movements recalled with
ease–? Your carelessness
became this destination
called your Home; a
Sweetheart Abbey filled
not with the martyrdom
of wives bestowed their
husband's hearts inside
a jar, but Gilbert Broun's
belongings set alight
in a public square for
having prayed too long
to an outlawed Faith
empowering the likes
of them over new Kings
anointed in their stead.
Each time I have condemned
this place, I find myself
thrown back against the
door; strive to obscure
indelible marks of my fear
in you, like a child caught
with the broken pieces of a
mother's favourite vase.
Please forgive the shape
of bodies plied to distort
their limbs on the basis of
Survival– I am not made
stronger by Experience,
but rather have grown
knowledgeable of Temerity
and Patience in the face
of all that we are not: Safe,
deserving neither of our
succor nor our bleeding cuts
beneath the sword of all
they are not able to conceive
of in their terror– having
found inside them Nothing,
either but the way we bend
to meet them– eyes as Open
to discrepant shared realities
as theirs are firmly shut to
ours. No, I did not think
that I deserved it– I thought
they were the ones who did
not Deserve to lose me; who
would not bear my absence
and so could not bring myself
to craft it– it was not me I kept
alive, but ghosts of those who
used to feed me everything
but what I'd needed, wishing
they might find in Empty
hands a loss incalculable to
years and ages of the even
Older ones whose names I find,
finally, in faint relief etched in
the stones paving the cellar;
confusions over-spent the only
testament to those who came
before us. Am I now my pain
so that you who never truly
lived may avoid a more
humane; Timely demise–?
In the Fortnight of the
Ancestors, might I forgive
and begin to Harvest, here
the unbound hands and
tentative mirth of any
animal permitted warmth;
permission, here, to Try?
Tarry here a little longer,
Shadow; you need not go
away– for over thee I trace
my fingers as if darkness
inked the letters to our
younger Selves who knew
not yet their burden– observe
Her like the puppet played
hidden behind the screen;
deduce the figure in proportion
to the lies we cast as if they
were the blessings meant by
Ancestors to fair, protect us;
for as poorly as they seemed
to serve, those meagre rations
measure every ounce they
had to offer. If I am to leave,
let it be with all your better
Blessings– the ones grown
too late for you to receive
save in my careful, at last Becoming.
--
The day we leave is a long one. There seems so much to do until we realize there is nothing to take but our own Body, possessed as it is of all inside this strange and Holy building.
I kneel in ready supplication on a ground I've known as parched and find instead the damp of a lover's breath; you were here all along, just waiting for
the moment we might kiss.
My hand on the frame of an open door lies as heavy as it did feel closed; goodbye, my ready Darling–
may you never truly part from me, but having held us both
together, I must now get
on; am growing
ever taller.
