σακοζ (shield)
on this newly-fashioned shield,
portent rather than pity
my grandfather said,
bronzed as broken bones, bodies
forget—every day a holy-water
index finger like
lions that fall upon
them—you can’t save anything
not because I could
but because I would have to look,
at the shield’s slow patina—green as day
the mouth tries to say: I am old
there are stars tonight, but I do not remember
portent rather than pity
my grandfather said,
bronzed as broken bones, bodies
forget—every day a holy-water
index finger like
lions that fall upon
them—you can’t save anything
not because I could
but because I would have to look,
at the shield’s slow patina—green as day
the mouth tries to say: I am old
there are stars tonight, but I do not remember
the story is wrong-sided, hanging on
strapped arms—what’s the point?
in pictures, when loss is
left lying in a road—you never
fulcrum to pivot pain away from
the center of a field—savage
straight-horned cattle—you can’t save
the truth: I never wanted children—
find them, by the side of the road,
every day, here
spores spilled from the fruitbody
though my eyes are young, I know
I do not recognize
strapped arms—what’s the point?
in pictures, when loss is
left lying in a road—you never
fulcrum to pivot pain away from
the center of a field—savage
straight-horned cattle—you can’t save
the truth: I never wanted children—
find them, by the side of the road,
every day, here
spores spilled from the fruitbody
though my eyes are young, I know
I do not recognize
even one constellation