Out of Eden by Marie Ponsot

Out of Eden

Under the May rain over the dug grave

my mother is given canticles and I who believe

in everything watch flowers stiffen to new bloom.

Behind us the rented car fabricates a cave.

My mother nods: Is he? He is. But, is? Nods.

Angels shoo witches from this American tomb.

The nod teaches me. It is something I can save.

He left days ago. We, so that we too may leave,

install his old belongings in a bizarre new room.

I want to kneel indignantly anywhere and rave.

      Well, God help us, now my father’s will is God’s.

      At games and naming he beat Adam. He loved his Eve.

      I knew him and his wicked tongue. What he had, he gave.

I do not know where to go to do it, but I grieve.