Bones, Singing Gods, and the Felt Meadows
Jonathan Barrett
You used to walk here,
at the edge of the woods
listening to lyre and lute
waiting for him to find you
hiding amid tree-shadows
and shallow undergrowth.
You used to tell him
dawn in spring was like a singing god –
that each unfolding moment
was asleep in your mind,
that the song the gods sang
closed palpable distances
You used to write
on skin and veiled vein,
line after line looking
for the soft girth of meaning;
perhaps a lyric composed in darkness,
your words disguised as a whiff of wind
for leading him to your bones.
He said he would not rest
until he saw your bones:
those raw bits
laying in leaves, lingering
in felt meadows.
And you’re still waiting
waiting for the singing gods to raise your bones
from the felt meadows, still waiting
for him to cross
impassable rivers
to assemble your dislocated soul, still waiting
for him to carry
the weight of your body
as part of his own.
after Rainer Maria Rilke