Public Republic

Becca Books

Photo: eXage

The poor things! Every one
with the cold of the world ‘round her shoulders ―
and that’s not to mention the weight of the man,
unless it’s the stab of his absence.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.

I had a scar or two of my own,
though grown hidden in folds of oldness
and fat, for I’m that, as those donkeys, my feet
keep complaining. But living is painful.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.

That’s what I know. You can’t help what you can’t ―
what you do, you must: doing
your humanly best to tidy the mess
God leaves serves to steady the grieving.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.

One I helped had nine in her house,
and her the only earner;
another had none, except, she would slur
for a joke, her bedmate, the stroke.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.

Strange, but at Christmas, when I traveled
to cook up a goose for my niece,
the mother tried slitting her wrists while the other
one choked on her oatmeal and died.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.

Then I would sit for that chip-toothed girl
with the braying, cabbage-faced baby.
One March, when my ankle was ice-sprained, she let
her latest boyfriend destroy it.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.

I don’t know, but it seems that by straws
that the burden gets too breaksome ever
to heave on your back, once
you just put it down for a breath of a moment.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.

Mornings my feet are swollen stiff.
I eat. I sweep. No use weeping.
We’re all conscripts with each our own cross to haul
my own is the being so lonely.

Some come from ashes, some dust, some clay;
                         but none is numb.