The Compline

Between us, there are one hundred one

umber haints in our home.

In bed, we discuss

our future, our children woven in myrrh, sitting

in some tomorrow, waiting for us to join & give them our science

so they can live.

I tell her what I fear: I’ll walk into fogged, writhen woods & die

when our babies are too young to carry my baritone with them.

I’ll become

the almost-stranger

they hear their mother’s prayers paint the night sky for.

The Lord giveth & The Lord taketh parents every day.

Love is no shield against His mighty ginger hand or will.

Even language passes away.

Even the bouquet of vowels & syllables collected

each year can be swept from the scaly floor of the tongue.

All stories end in death

if we are honest with ourselves & how the world works.

If I am being honest,

when I, eventually, hear my love sleeping by my side,

I eye the gloom, whisper to God, ask that He spare me

the escape, the emptying out of the marigold light,

for many years. I ask that, when it finally comes, I not go before

I know all I’ve set my heart upon will live on well without me.

I ask Him to forgive my selfish maw for having the nerve

to call out His name & flood His holy ear with the word more.

Notes:

Source: Poetry (September 2024)