It’s true there were times when it was too much and I slipped off in the first light or its last hour and drove up through the crooked way of the valley and swam out to those ruins on an island. Blackbirds were the only music in the spruces, and the stars, as they faded out, offered themselves to me like glasses of water ringing by the empty linens of the dead. When Delilah watched the dark hair of her lover tumble, she did not shatter. When Abraham relented, he did not relent. Still, I would tell you of the humbling and the waking. I would tell you of the wild hours of surrender, when the river stripped the cove’s stones from the margin and the blackbirds built their strict songs in the high pines, when the great nests swayed the lattice of the branches, the moon’s brute music touching them with fire. And you, there, stranger in the sway of it, what would you have done there, in the ruins, when they rose from you, when the burning wings ascended, when the old ghosts shook the music from your branches and the great lie of your one sweet life was lifted? Copyright © 2015 by Joseph Fasano. Used with permission of the author. |
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