from the rubble-edge

SOFT CATHEDRAL

She came from the rubble-edge of tracks,

my little Jessie, O –

her father gambled so,

her mother sunk low, like a parallax

of sallow sun.  Harsh raptor features,

scavenged palimpsest,

thin gewgaws in a needle-nest –

indifferent lights, long-distant stars...

– as if the morning held no lamp

for choppy grizzlies, salt-

&-pepper crowns.  O Walt,

where be thy warm palm now?  Thy camp

amid tin canvases o’ cheery braves?

Jonah & Jessie, splintered

by the sea, had wintered

in the bottomland, like jasper leaves;

no voice of kind encouragement,

no ring-dove warbling

could break the iron thing

that iced the whole whale-monument.

Only one bright prong near St. Louis

promised their release –

an upturned kayak, Miss

Virginia (airy gate to happiness).

Slant waves of sorrow wash across

the little pine deck, Jessie

sang, but comfort thee –

my soft cathedral floats on moss.

6.2.16