The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-W. B. Yeats, The Second Coming (1919)
Aaah, here we are
assaulted by headlines
agitating
in cafés
office hallways
classroom lectures
conference rooms
art openings
poetry workshops
corner bars
kitchen tables
long-winded sermons
protesting
on the streets
in airports
on Facebook walls
with hashtags and pussy hats
untethered anger
fear easily stoked.
Even the poets are pulled off course.
In this time
we are all weary
darkness has dropped again
disbelief and fear have taken hold
en masse we put our heads down
round our shoulders
to tiny screens
screaming
another anarchy
loosed upon our world.
Change-makers will come from a younger generation.
One may even slouch toward Bethlehem
awaiting rebirth.
I will endure this season closer to home.
Gravity compresses my spine,
draws my muscles downward.
I am locked in a skeletal structure
that slumps and slouches
toward death.
I’ve already lost a half inch.
How many more half-inches
before I disappear completely?
My skin has been released from my meat body
rests atop it
Grandmother’s lace cloth
shaken and settled
carelessly creased
stained by Sunday dinners
holiday casseroles
thinning and translucent in spots
best covered
with serving dishes
and Sabbath candles.
The days of sumptuous feasts are over.
Despite signs of an early spring
my table is set for autumn
a solitary placemat
one fine bone china plate
one long-stemmed crystal goblet
wedding gifts released from decades-long storage
awaiting the right occasion
which never came
small meals
sprinkled with fear and disbelief
bitter with unrest
eaten in silence
a quiet protest
against indigestible news.
And what of last year’s tulips
poking unexpectedly
through winter’s brown leaf cover?
Ignored and forgotten
but not yet dead.
Somewhere past midlife,
perennially tired,
petals faded,
tint a bit washed out
stems bent with weight
they, too, losing height.
Which tomorrow will it be
when I can no longer bend
to help the bulbs emerge
scrape away wet dead leaves
pull relentless sprouts of new grass?
Which tomorrow will it be
when pain is no longer a transient twinge?
I envy the effortless blooms
in front of the house with the young family
toddlers with runaway trikes
and flaxen, flyaway hair
skin flushed pink like hardy cyclamen
the young mother, skin elegant as a snowdrop
toys dotting the lawn in a bright sunny pool of crocus
the chorus of buttery yellow daffodils
and the tulips’ youthful exuberance.
My center cannot hold.
I am a lone bud
pushing upward
through thickening ground cover
under skies I fear
may become as dark
as those blotted out
by bombs and gas chambers.
It seems I belong to a whole tribe
irrelevant relics of banquets and feasts
wildflower gardens
yards dotted
in Tonka-truck yellow and Nerf-ball orange
not-quite-young mothers
tan and taut-skinned
fathers home for a day of rest
light and laughing
the post-war world fresh with possibility
early-planted democracy
blooming in glorious splendor
protected from dangers
we thought we’d made obsolete.
Aaah, every bloom ravaged by time.