Prose

where our dead go to die


a lost tree,
a leaning tree

arched like grandmother
over the water
with falling leaves 
and falling ants
that crawl on my legs,

all an invitation 
to join a river. 




look at that thing, 
that water, that river
as though my table
a place for elbows
a surface to reflect
to be reflected, for

the things these waters have seen
it is a lifeline stretching eternally.   

irish girls, scottish boys
resolute and somewhat angry:
   "the water is dead
    it lies facing upward
    in a funeral home
    already powdered 
    for burial."   

no getting away from it
heritage and blessings. 

piece of wood
thunder, rain, disappointment
no relief in sight,
let it rain, then,

one turtle stretching
like a swan, on a log.

    a floating piece of wood
    on a river that extends 
    to the bottom of the world
    all things go, as all things grow, in time,

in time there is salvation
in salvation there is love.


out there in that desert
like a turtle on a rock
bearing itself in defiance
of a river dried like brick
telling itself something vain
is that godforsaken rathole
and the declaration:
   i am a god
   i am beyond reproach
   i am no turtle after all. 

where the dead go to die
there are buried 
behind the eyes of them
the onus of life recaptured
as in birth itself, 

herein such dead will revive, 
                                              resuscitate them. 

But the dead never die
in places like ASH- 
   misery too painful is undying,
   hear all our mothers' crying
   tears in a river, knowing
   that in order to die 
   there must be life.  

                      (c) pj reed 2012


paoloreed@gmail.com