Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Simone Weil 11


It is necessary to uproot oneself. In the language of direction up is toward the air, which cannot sustain us. She uprooted her daughter, found on the steps of a municipal building. This daughter screamed each night for juice. A cry is not a wall, but fear is. She learned to feel her daughter's cries as drops of water on her cheeks. To mend a cry is to break it. Break it like bread, letting birds scatter for the crumbs. Pigeons in the grass, alas. Doves fugue with thrush and finch. Sound is not random, but where it falls is. Like wisdom, lacking plot. Once upon a time the story ended. We had to turn it over, the young woman's torn feet placed gently back in the garden, her stepmother's words muffled by the moss. Our earth is in the air.
                                                    --for Maya

1 comment:

Karen Skolfield said...

Oooh, what a lovely poem! I'm really fond of "Pigeons in the grass, alas. Doves fugue with thrush and finch." If I start digging a little, I feel your first line fighting with the last, though I wonder if others will see them working together just fine.