Uncategorized25 Feb 2019 08:00 am
W.C. Roberts
his chin thrust out like a ledge over the chasm
between them, their child
a tiny figure cut out of stone and blackened in a fire
that burned their house boat
to the water line
he glares at her, eyes like flint and steel
but the sparks do not so much and singe her hair
the woman takes up their child
and cradles him in arms
not yet turned to stone, but thunder in a confining space
shakes the soot from his brow
-- the child stirs
there was a time when the men on the banks of the river
would have died for them, and their stories told
to frighten children who hadn’t the good sense to turn to stone
when the fire comes and their thatched huts burn down
to the ground
from these ashes we are enjoined, and one of the ravens
he watches over us
and we, who’d live for ages, and cannot live under the water
that comes to bury us alive
we, who’d live for ages, and cannot live
in the crook of his elbow like a firearm
we look away, and he looks for us, as the storm’s fury
shards of a white porcelain heaven breaking
and they come down on the water, without hardly a splash
knowing the bottom well, and the chasm between them
who’d take a drink from this well? and know
what’s left of the sky
father, father, says the child, in the child’s lisping way
why have they turned against us? are we not good
for them?
he swallows, as if thinking of his answer;
he steps into the chasm
and is gone
