SONG FOR THE LAST INTERVIEW (LAST DRAFT)

SONG FOR THE LAST INTERVIEW

'it will flame out like shining from shook foil'

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

for Dr. Robert Joseph Connelly, San Antonio, in memoriam

this is for the Word born whole

for the poetry-riven sky

for the strength to recognize a lie

for the breakable language

unbroken still

by the bent word

built for profit,

not for truth.

this is my sigh in the glass blown

air for the glass blown disappearing act of

stars in the last nights

appearing,

disarming, chiming in the wind

that only angels bring

the pause (finally, in excoriating speech,

-your very own-)

where you collect yourself

if not your things

from one last day at work

or home

picking your report card up

in June from the ghost school,

from the ghosts.

this is for cornbread heirlooms,

for afternoons of strawberries

and cream -

for the Holy Ghost dressed in pale green

for the whole world seen

through stereoscopic Disney,

Christmas stenciled windows;

the least view of small

pink flowers bordering the front

sidewalk, goodbye...

this is for God

who hears and sees the

honey tinged questions'

finding fault

so that permanent records

continue to reflect

your waywardness in

never having the exact

amount of change

this is for the second you know

you have to leave

the home you love

so much earlier than you planned

with only three dresses packed

in a

walnut, and the Lord's prayer on a dime:

fixing the hall clock in your memory

the jelly glasses

and the willow-ware, the brightness of pennies

over other denominations...

repairing your chiffon shadow

on the way with your personal sewing kit

to honor those who raised you

and read you fairytales

as though from great distances.

this is for

no safe-houses on the horizon

least of all the yellow brick one

across the street

where children climb trees

and eat the whole summer

an entire orchard of homeade

peach ice cream...

this is for the deep-starred journey

undertaken

for the fools errands

for the straw that will never never

ever turn into gold

no matter how the Rumplestiltskins scream.

listen to me:

questionable friends

make the journey a million times

harder and give you the wrong

directions to the castle so

that you never find

the singing bird.

this is for trudging on alone

for crossing the border and

not looking back even when

the person coming with you

changes their mind at sunrise

and runs to tell on you.

this is for living

like the silence of the moon

and soon and soon

you will withdraw from a tiny shell

at the exact right moment in the interview, a

shining like shook foil shaken-

three dresses of compressed splendor

kept against the rain and

wrapped in violet tissue:

the one of vivid stars

the one of ornate flame

the one of cloudless cloudless blue

and, as if on cue, the opal angels move-

scattering the inquisitors;

settling old accounts

in scripts of gold

with not one scintilla of

asking anyone for permission.

for you were watched over

even while crocodiles wept

my child my child at

every nightmare's exit

by the Word unbroken:

by music heard in the wake of angels,

by undetainable Light...

mary angela douglas 30 june 2009 rev.7 december 2016