The Sand Hill Review http://www.sandhillreview.org
2004
Remnants
May these arms that now
cradle
remnants of ragged
guilt that hiss
like a gas burner the moment
before light
lift
upward, swing
into a sky made open.
Miraculous that words spoken
can open
memory of an empty cradle
useless to swing,
bring out my ragged
sobs into the light,
my guilt receding like the
shore waves’ hiss.
Telling at last my his-
tory, I felt my body open,
releasing grief that like a
stone rolled into light,
while a friend cradled
me in his arms and let my
ragged
breath ease into a steady
swing.
Only death is final. Memories
swing
back to the hiss
of ignorant complicity and
the ragged
contractions as my body
opened
for a child that would never
fill a cradle,
never see the light.
I cannot make light
of the pendulum swing
that lets me now cradle
for words like gold as sluice
waters hiss
over grief once raw as rocks
laid open,
the edges of memory ragged.
I want to render my ragged
tatters of grief into a
substance light
as the leaves that lie open
to the sun and swing
with a sibilant hiss
in their airy cradle.
My cradled flame of memory is
ragged,
but will persist until the
hissing wick dims its light,
the sky swings open.