OLD CANOE
They walked on the beach on Veterans’ Day,
Henry & Alex, 11-
11. Father & son.
A peaceful drone from the Pacific, hey
ey yo. Henry, oh Henry, what
have you done? Broken
the lawful bonds of Christen-
dom. Limps toward Yehoshephat,
your son, your son (beneath milky
ocean spray). Laborious
struggle to restore justice...
the father’s crimes his legacy.
Innocence precedes the chaste
memorials of same;
children entering the game
adore that grass, to which they haste.
Endicott ripped the Cross out of
the Union, Jack – inspired
by Rog Wms (hired
Ajax?). Puritanical ab ovum
back in Topsfield (prior Zaccheus
Gould). Desecrations
rule the day. Someone’s
idea of revenge, rebellion... us?
The Narragansetts have a word
for youthful arrogance
(I forget). Once
Henry walked another beach (Rhode
*
Island) lugging remorse (mule, dunce).
The heavy waves pounded.
Ocean-soul sounded.
Cordelia’s quipu-crown (silence).
The madness works itself out (&
might end, someday) –
the greedy Boar will slay
& slay, until his tiny orange hand
is stayed. Complacent cows of Bashan
wallow on the slopes
of Washington (one hopes
Starbucks will runneth over, son)
until berserkers finish slaughtering
(but that was in another
coffeeshop – it wasn’t her).
Columbia keens for her offspring
in Ramada Inn, who are no more.
Henry Oakillas, huffy
Henry, O... what now? I
do not know. To the bridge? Claymore?
More clay? Sword shall pierce
your own soul, Mary.
The air, soft here – sea-
air (light of a sweet lightness).
The chaste beginnings of Thanksgiving
in the myth, in the dream...
on the shore, by beam
of some old canoe. Hoping, hoping.
11.12.18
