Still Born
Why did the old woman leave the fire,
I see you wonder? So abruptly, gone.
There they were you see, speaking of
their suns,
light in the eye, pain in the groin,
the old man two doors down leaning on
the wall by the stair
groaning for 'Absolum' my son Absolum,
the young man Absolum
Caught by the hair in a tree and slaughtered
by his father's friend,
and Terry's haunting from the future,
or a sideways slip
into another universe where our children,
separate and part
-for ever- of the way we are; half of
the brain forever visiting
and skrying, sensing where they are
and how they be..
what do you think of us old folk by the
fire, shaken suddenly by
passion invisible to outward eye? Old
skirmishes, old wiles, old cunning.
and suddenly we cry out "a child, a
little child will lead them" knowing
that it is not in us to be, not now,
a prince of peace, a comforter;
that we cannot now be big enough to
be children,
to be such a child
to sing the grey song in the cradle
of rocking love,
endlessly, endlessly rocking in the
cradle of love.
What do you think, boy? looking at me
with puzzled eye? The old woman
raves, feeling the pain of the fathers
in her sinew, searching the young man's
arrow of desire? Look for the clean
world, the world of passionate
belonging, being part of it all and
knowing what we know?
You think we do not feel it too?
Child. I had many sons, and of them all,
they only ever always tell the tale of one.
There's always one. The one that has
you walking in the night, fretting
over nothing, demanding, questioning,
breaking, sorting, whining,
getting the wrong end of every stick
and hitting the dog with it.
Interrupts the teaching of the elders
to ask the wrong question and
bellowing that they're keeping secrets
or they cannot answer him.
Baffling boys. Boys who never seem to
get it right so that we leave the
lads who walk on calmly, learning, doing,
being, neglect praise of the
praiseworthy and
follow with our eyes and longing
this one, thorny lad who makes us laugh
when we should correct him and
throw up our hands and run barefoot
to the beach to rescue him.
Iesu child! I see you look at me and
wonder if I hate or love the boy,
and truly, I don't know. I think sometimes
I never will, but that's all
gone
the time is gone, and many a night will
come and go before you know
the end and how it came about, the end
that bites me even now and makes
me
hesitate to hear the song of angels,
glorifying peace.
He was my last, and not full term, and
so I thought him dead. My adam,
still born on the breast, and soft and
butterfat and silent. Far too
small and lips like cupid's bow, about
to part and never did.
and I crouched on my haunches rocked
him to my heart and bled
moaning inside like some great wounded
beast, and felt
hopeless and helpless while they came,
great wounded boys, my sons,
bewildered that I could not turn to
them
as if the dead one were the only son,
the only one, the first born
dear to me.
Their father came, and drew the child
from me
tenderly, and wrapped in him with my
torn hair, a feather, tiny
tokens from his brother kin, a little
rock, a seashell, bright puriri
in a shawl and held me while we walked,
down to the seashore, into the waves,
to set the small, pathetic bundle
in the sea.
Why do you interrupt? Why stop me?
Would it had been so. The salt whipped
hair which stung my eyes that day
was less than all the rest
I could not even wipe my nose for the
rain ridden wind,
but it was better so, should have remained
so
loss and the gull crying
unable to come to land..
