[“whither shall I flee from Thy Spirit?” from the Psalms...]
I saw crown molding tip the walls
of an unbelievable stage-set, real, at the time-
set the table
they will tell you everything
you’re entitled to know
while sipping their rubicund tea
on a lush and leafy afternoon you dream
is still your very own-
with your whole life ahead of you
as the saying goes
and still so near your own real
childhood home you could walk back there and be done with this
Why didn’t you
before they trained you not to love
or even be, as if they could…
and to fill their hands with your own heirloom pearls meant just for them….
but I learned slow and never
to believe
all their lost lovely angels far from home and
to fight the battles only
I could see –to know what’s mine
alone
not underwritten by game theorists
or Pavlov’s pirates, looting my bright way…
as from the beginning of clowns-
and mesalliance
oh all my faceless springs in the name of God,
my God, unused and lilac-
I’d teach the children not to ride
that monochromatic ferris standing by
the carnival children modified to sell: flowers waxen friendship-
and world peace...
I'll sing you the song my mother lent me
as she died:
I saw the cream of God
brim at the top
and those who skimmed and skimmed
rich bubbles from my only Soul and from my rainbowed
hallowed, haloed home
I saw their skinflint empires rise
and the parties they threw each other
at each eclipse
who could explain
the vacancies of cranes
on the tilting horizons that they owned
and all the summers subcontracted out and
sparkleless
what made me turn around
to find
the trapdoor in the Night and
it was God up late, still
counting the tears of those waylaid
as if they never stopped being:
His own embroidery forever-
“Here’s your doll finery,” He whispered.
in the voice of all rosepetals-
“I’ve hidden it here.”
You are -pure life - I cried - I’ll never give away-
as if I could…
reward the kidnappers
oh my King where wishes turn to palms if we endure;
I’ll buy fresh groceries, pay the rent and
find the playground where they’re waiting still:
all my tin soldiers whirring in the dust-
I’m caught in
the lace of the day
and cannot leave You-
mary angela douglas 1-2 october 2011
