Repentant,
You know the way the canyon picks up light—
not all at once, but with a speed the dust
can only call swelling: first one trough,
then another, day leeching into each thing
separately, like how the eye falls on cells
of an overripe persimmon, knowing where
the thumb can feel that give and lush
before the knife can have its way. Sorrow
follows each of us since June. The fowl
move around the feed like obsessives,
like believers in the constant fear
of being touched. When we go to gather
spices from the fields now, we tug at the plants
with hungry gloves. Skyward, the horizon
each day makes shoulders as though
someone said our village will never
be loved again, and the air complied.
It is colder, but in the crackle of ozone
we think our noses work better. Just
yesterday, Timothy awoke and told
the strangest thing: how at vespers he raised
his eyes, looking out the window, and saw
coming from the face of every denizen
these blue spirits, smokelike and lissome,
billowing out from the eyes, the mouth,
the nose, the ears, every gap in the flesh
that would let them. They seemed to thrill
on air, but none of the people noticed
what rose and tangled. After telling us
Timothy became very ill, and we had
to remove several of his limbs for fear
of his added recalcitrance. The work
was stiff and brutal, but these are such days
when we must act according to laws and live
often outside ourselves. Timothy understands
our ways, as you do, too. You know we each
keep a secret inside our flesh, it weathers
with the darker seasons, and we wait
for the moment when the body has weakened—
that sign its great love can be taken from us.
The nights may be cooler, but in afternoon
no parishioner speaks of pain any longer,
every one hears a sound like rain
clarifying her prayers, seeding his mind
with new heat, great fervor, a readiness.