At last the
wrens have nested
In the hollows
Of his
arches, in a house
That will not
last. What’s wild
Has come to
find him, and our sad,
Unhouseled
father, whose hands
Can’t
hold their labor, has hobbled to his windows
To lift his
fading
Language,
like silt
From out his
rivers, like those fists
Of empty
bridles, in a prayer
That he has
practiced—for order,
For dominion,
as he once kept stallions
Still.
All fall I’ve cursed the hours
Of carrying
his body
Through these
rooms
Where illness
thins him, in the places
He has knelt
in, where I swore
I never
would. But today, in bare
Exhaustion, I
bowed down
By his
waters, and felt a body drifting
Through the
shadows
Of my body,
through cairns
Of ancient
pyres, through the burdock’s
Twisted
folds. Like the silence
After family,
like the rust
Across its
voices, it stooped to kiss the winter
Work had
written
In my
shoulders, it sniffed
My salted
hair. O I knew
It hadn't
come. But tell me,
Now, I
whispered, between this water
And this
fire, this rest
And
worldly labor, in which way
Am I
wanted, will you tell me
Where to
go? And with
love, and sudden
Wonder, as
though it had been
Waiting, the
silent thing behind me whispered
No and no
and no.
