Helen Ruggieri

RIVER SUTRA

                        Under dappled willow scattered sundrops

                        the river cuts a deep hole in the bank,

                        appears to crowd out of the flow,

                        to stop flowing southward.

                        The current drags past on the far side

                        hauling leaves and limbs, letters and plastic,

                        my parents in their burial clothes,

                       my children, theirs. . . .

                        I look out over this momentary stillness

                        to where ripples mark the hidden current

                        like dreams under sleeping eyelids.

                        What comes is always coming;

                        it's waiting that's hard to master.

                       

*

FUNERAL ON A RAINY MORNING

I see men, but they look like trees, walking. Mark 8:23

Not a friend, but related in the way love

sometimes binds you to those you'd

otherwise avoid.  True to an old

truce and your agreement with yourself,

you show up at his funeral, sniffling even,

for his children, for mortality in general.

The altar is carved marble, rococo,

ugly in a way I once took for beautiful,

arcane signs unreadable from lack of practice:

a triangle of skulls around a figure

with a raised hand, angels on either

side, globe, sun, a cross.

The censer swinging, bells, silence,

rise, kneel, sit, stand.

I look for consolation in the worn words

but find only dull resonance, repeated rhythm.

My father's funeral, outside, was better -

­grass, pine, sky, sun.

The reader placed a sprig of pine

on the coffin - all the comfort nature allows.

We caravan to the cemetery,

wipers beating a slow dirge.

Outside with rain falling on our heads,

our feet sinking into the sodden ground,

I feel comforted. This is better.

We should remember what we are.

*

CONFESSION

I flew over three time zones

to get here on time

shedding hours as if I'd

been living beyond my years

they lied

told me this old man

struck cancer dumb

was my father

I stayed

because my mother thought

he was her husband

outside

sheets of newspaper

floated in the duststorm

like prehistoric birds

a dense violet light

ate the mesa

leaving only a great

purple bruise

how fragile each breath

seems when it may be the last

I confess that while I listened

to the falter and catch of each one

I told myself to watch carefully

miss nothing

I knew what I was doing

he waited until

the day I got here

with my impeccable timing

he raised his cool, dry hand

closes it over my own

like a baby might

for months birds

of silence have circled

every time I sat to write

I wait for

plangorous voices

to break from

vacant throats

the grief of orphans

is for themselves

I confess that while

this stranger died

I drew his last breaths into a poem

with every detail

I could salvage from

this barren desert

*

FLEXED BURIAL

                                    Under the small mound

                                    on the east bank of the river

                                                and buried with her

                                    combs of antler bone

                                    heron mandible hairpins

                                    freshwater pearls

                                    needles and awls

                                    the carved figure of a bird

                                                and over her

                                    plows rake each spring

                                    corn and winter wheat

*

           

ATROPOS: CUTS THE THREAD

                                    How beautiful the serpent's tongue,

                                    she thinks, and judging done-ness,

                                    dishes out the stew.

                                    Late into the evening

                                    she reads their poetries

                                    wrapped in a black robe,

                                               

                                    cobwebs traced in silver on the sleeves,

                                    the collar ringed with lilies

                                    stemmed with a fringe of many threads.

                                               

                                    She traces each stanza with her finger,

                                    takes scissors from the basket,

                                    makes the cut.

                                    When embroidery is done,

                                    it's done.

                                    No one argues with her logic.

                                   

                                    Above, dark wings of kohl

                                    steadfast against titanium;

                                    there is no wavering.

                       

© Helen Ruggieri 


from the new forthcoming: The Kingdom Where No One Keeps Time

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