by: Ellen Bryant Voigt
I always thought she ought to have an angel.
There's one I saw a picture of, smooth white,
the wings like bolts of silk, breasts like a girl's--
like hers--eyebrows, all of it. For years
I put away a little every year,
but her family was shamed by the bare grave,
and hadn't they blamed me for everything,
so now she has a cross. Crude, rigid, nothing
human in it, flat dead tree on a hill,
it's what you see for miles, it's all I see.
Symbol of hope, the priest said, clearing his throat,
and the rain came down and washed the formal flowers.
I guess he thinks that dusk is just like dawn.
I guess he had forgot about the nails.
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I love Ellen Bryant Voigt's collection of poems Kyrie about the 1918 flu epidemic. It's beautiful and heartbreaking, like the poem above. When I read that book the first time, it sort of expanded my idea of what poetry could be. I think I carried it around with me for two or three months, dipping into it every day.
Today, I am thinking and writing about things that inspire me. Fill me up. This poem does that. You might not respond in the same way to it that I do. If not, I challenge you to find something tonight that makes your cup run over.
Saint Marty's cup is pretty damn full right now.
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