Here at the quiet limit of the world.
(Tithonus: Alfred Lord Tennyson)
At three her arms hang,
listless on the chair, the bony fingers
splay as wicker star along the rocker's
side. She swings back, forth, back . . .
and the beads (neat sunlit peas)
slip from her hands,
dull patter on the vinyl floor. She sways
with gentle purr, behind an opened
door.
Where is she now? In what kind
halfway house for flesh? What does the body
do with aging cells in lengthened dormancy?
We walk by, pick up the wayward
rosary and lay it on her lap. The lazy
torpor spreads and we are caught
in its seducing slope, down, down
and gently to a road, where no cars run.
This is where we must yield to faster
passers-by, joggers counting heartbeats
in their belts, relay teams with slim
batons -- crunch, crack, gravel underfoot.
Our daze keeps us behind.
We scarcely catch the mockingbird's first
jig, the nest with ovals breaking,
jerky motions tempting death,
the race begun with feathers flat against
the sides and hungry gawking mouths.
We watch the rise, fall, rise of earth
around her earthly brow, all this
exposing, uninhabited to our nomadic eye.
We wake, and she awakens, too.
Her fingers count: Hail Mary, full of grace.
Did you have a good nap?
Oh, yes. I dreamt I saw a mockingbird,
a nestling, soaked and wary, and
the soft anointed head.
You've never seen as much. Come.
Let me tell you. . . .
(c)Sofia Starnes 2008
from Corpus Homini
Wings Press, San Antonio, TX
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