Uncategorized25 Feb 2019 08:00 am
W.C. Roberts
his chin thrust out like a ledge over the chasmÂ
between them, their childÂ
a tiny figure cut out of stone and blackened in a fire
that burned their house boat
to the water lineÂ
he glares at her, eyes like flint and steelÂ
but the sparks do not so much and singe her hairÂ
the woman takes up their childÂ
and cradles him in armsÂ
not yet turned to stone, but thunder in a confining space
shakes the soot from his browÂ
-- the child stirs
there was a time when the men on the banks of the river
would have died for them, and their stories toldÂ
to frighten children who hadn’t the good sense to turn to stoneÂ
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 usÂ
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 liveÂ
in the crook of his elbow like a firearm
we look away, and he looks for us, as the storm’s furyÂ
shards of a white porcelain heaven breakingÂ
and they come down on the water, without hardly a splashÂ
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 Â
why have they turned against us? are we not goodÂ
for them?
he swallows, as if thinking of his answer;
he steps into the chasm
and is gone
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