These nights we wait for
the easing, when Neptune
and Pluto will have
gone their separate ways
again, their gravities
loosened from the seasonal
tug-of-war that plays hell
on each conscience,
that stranglehold of regret
and missed connections.
We ritually banish
ourselves from feasting,
our place in the food chain
no longer recognizable.
We nibble at the edges of
a vague grief and pull
the salt from our tears.
Midnight, and still we hunker
at the table, measuring in ourselves
our ancestors’ notion of
goodness by fractions of an ounce, gold
bought on a gamble-
to save towards what? What
to do but finally
call forth those we have
silenced with our blind
love, our inherited hungers,
the claims of blood ties?
They come to forgive us and move on-
the child, the imp, the merchant
of laughter, the one who
wanted to fly, the one
who dreamed an amazing machine,
the one who stood apart in the photos.
We bury the bones.
The wood in the winter stove,
the kettle singing,
are almost enough now,
almost enough, we whisper into
the last faces, ours,
that wait across the table.
LENT
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