My Soul

any other age would be a road roughed

halfway through some dark wood’s listening heart

two damp young men in suits sucked dry of light

walk stiffly and uncertain round a bend

in each left hand the black box of a book

They see me then spread out to fill the way

as sun blares down and dry May wind slaps

cheap loose plastic cloth against their shins

The thinner taller blond one greets me in

an earnest tone these days not often heard

and when I do not take his offered hand

surprised he pulls it back by jerked degrees

says I’m Elder White this is Elder Cole

Then without my willing it this left palm

rises as if to let them read what life

has written there and with eyes as steady

as I always hoped they were I meet the

blue and shaking gaze of this elder who

is younger than my unborn son’s first son

and without warmth or cold not harsh or kind

say I do not want to talk about this

These boys awkward in cloth and flesh of men

stammer in relief their soft farewells

and what I would not let them save or name

stands long in silence looking after them