[de lacrimis Christi
tears of sleeping birds this evening I heard or read
from the National Geographic blurb, tears of sleeping
birds on rare occasions…
moths sip the tears of sleeping birds in Brazil.
do they get their fill I wondered of salt,
of the disappeared too early.
it seemed so fairy tale real, disturbing
embroideries wrung from a fanciful tree
miraculously inferred; subconsciously
a wilderness resonance brought to bloom
vibration set, to crystal tuned and shattering:
the one gold leafed in an
unsettling country
milk and honey dried
where something dear has died
where coral moths are sought
and seldom caught sipping the
tears of sleeping birds.
what do the birds dream then.,
that there is no more sorrow
in the world?
or the utmost burglary possible
has been sanctioned.
the heart is a lake that rises
for the small bird fluttering in its sleep
incapable of the grief necessary.
who will deliver me now
from the fugitive years ahead
where nothing more can be said, referred to
but “the tears of sleeping birds…".
shall we quaff a thimbles worth
for everything on earth, for
what remains in that refrain-
that suddenly am I reminded of
like a safe broken into, with all the codes of
rectitude, of a trembling name or two;
an exquisite residue
dewdrop poised on a branch
as if it were Song:
before the sign of the dark sun;
Nadezhda Mandelstam
speaking of herself and Akhmatova
after Osip had gone said,
in those days we had no tears left…
trembling over a handful of poems.
the moths, drinking their tears.
the moths, drinking their tears.
mary angela douglas 24 january 2019;rev. 17 march 2019
