Now come, the last that I can recognize,
pain, utter pain, fierce in the body’s texture.
As once in the mind I burned, so now I burn
in you; the wood resisted, long denied…
– Rilke
A child in winter under the sickle
moon one moment is bright with play, in love
with candy, lips and fingers Smartie red
(she likes red best), cartwheels on black branches,
oak branches written by wind and street lamp
on the hardwood floor, next moment’s surprised
by a cloud that mixes moon with sweetness,
cartwheel with voices from the kitchen, Mum
and Auntie, who discuss olives and lies.
Now come, the last that I can recognize,
old mountain beacon that holds fast sun’s light,
tell us a story, tell us a tale, bring
news of wealth, gold, the latest adventures
of heros adrift far from shore, no wind,
oarless, trying to get home by dreams of
red cows full of milk in such green pasture
focaccia, arugula, lettuce,
balsamic vinegar and oil, white plates,
rectory table, subtract from pleasure
pain, utter pain, fierce in the body’s texture.
That moon, that child, divide heaven’s promise
between them; the good food turns grey when day’s
hue is absorbed, and streets, hedges, palings,
all turn grey. Then mortal families gather,
women’s lies no stronger than lies of men,
too flushed to sit down, while the children learn
there’s slippage, a hole in the sky, the skin,
some wrong thing among us that burns and burns
the way wine, dark red, dries the throat and burns.
As once in the mind I burned, so now I burn
to heal this hurt child, light new white candles,
start the feast. She tells us she’s dizzy, can’t
stand the noise. All lies cease, laughter bows out.
When a child sickens in January, spring
breaches. A branch taps the window. She runs
in circles. With no one sober we hide
our fear and call a cab. Again the rush
of sudden fog: I’m in my first forest,
mouth zeroed. O trees, I want to confide
in you; the wood resisted, long denied…