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Toward the End: Easter Octave:
Anticipating Day Eight
I have a life that did
not become,
that turned aside and
stopped
astonished:
I hold it in me like a
pregnancy . . .
A. R. Ammons
I suppose what I have trouble with
is that the whole thing quite excludes
Mary, that she carried
through to the end like he did,
she cleaned and disciplined (wasn’t she
the first? to him?) and in the end
the equation isn’t neat enough
until she’s taken
neatly away and made into
something else entirely, a saint
to women who’s sons and
yes
daughters
have been slain, taken up by ropes
and stones and dope and nobody
grows out of it, they only hone
their grieving and what better place
than a gibbet than the rock
strewn barren land, where once
an eclipse at noon, a forgiveness,
a sprinkle of blood on dice?
The loss,
for her, was more than life.
See it?
Why can’t you see it?
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