Part 6 (1/2)

Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue.

Out there in Jutland In the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home.

Nerthus

For beauty, say an ash-fork staked in peat,

Its long grains gathering to the gouged split; A seasoned, unsleeved taker of the weather Where kesh and loaning finger out to heather.

Wedding Day

I am afraid.

Sound has stopped in the day And the images reel over And over. Why all those tears, The wild grief on his face Outside the taxi? The sap Of mourning rises In our waving guests.

You sing behind the tall cake Like a deserted bride Who persists, demented, And goes through the ritual.

When I went to the Gents There was a skewered heart And a legend of love. Let me Sleep on your breast to the airport.

Mother of the Groom

What she remembers

Is his glistening back In the bath, his small boots In the ring of boots at her feet.

Hands in her voided lap, She hears a daughter welcomed.

It's as if he kicked when lifted And slipped her soapy hold.

Once soap would ease off The wedding ring That's bedded forever now In her clapping hand.

Summer Home

I.

Was it wind off the dumps or something in heat d.o.g.g.i.ng us, the summer gone sour, a fouled nest incubating somewhere?

Whose fault, I wondered, inquisitor of the possessed air.

To realize suddenly, whip off the mat that was larval, moving and scald, scald, scald.

II.

Bus.h.i.+ng the door, my arms full of wild cherry and rhododendron, I hear her small lost weeping through the hall, that bells and hoa.r.s.ens on my name, my name.

O love, here is the blame.

The loosened flowers between us gather in, compose for a May altar of sorts.

These frank and falling blooms soon taint to a sweet chrism.

Attend. Anoint the wound.

III.

Oh we tented our wound all right under the homely sheet and lay as if the cold flat of a blade had winded us.

More and more I postulate thick healings, like now as you bend in the shower water lives down the tilting stoups of your b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

IV.

With a final unmusical drive long grains begin to open and split ahead and once more we sap the white, trodden path to the heart.

V.

My children weep out the hot foreign night.

We walk the floor, my foul mouth takes it out On you and we lie stiff till dawn Attends the pillow, and the maize, and vine That holds its filling burden to the light.