Saturday, May 24, 2014

Many Rivers (for Sylvia Plath)







Many rivers gather within my eyes,
their tidal songs flow too far from shore,
their silt and shells too distant from the sea.

Waves echo, pounding through blood's own reckoning, 
immense heartbeats not quite forgotten,
infinite moments immeasurable and fathomless.

Each grain of sand, an undiscovered nation,
its inhabitants unknowing and unknown.

The warp and weft of untold weeping
becomes a keening too wild to contain
within a single frame of flesh, 

first shaken, then shattered, 
crystal prisms pearled, bereft of kaleidoscopes
from which we might view the fog-shrouded horizon
we strive so hard to reach before dusk descends,

leaving us torn, adrift without a sextant in shadowed waters, 
without a star-struck sky to guide us into port.