Out of Eden
Under the May rain over the dug grave
my mother is given canticles and I who believe
in everything watch flowers stiffen to new bloom.
Behind us the rented car fabricates a cave.
My mother nods: Is he? He is. But, is? Nods.
Angels shoo witches from this American tomb.
The nod teaches me. It is something I can save.
He left days ago. We, so that we too may leave,
install his old belongings in a bizarre new room.
I want to kneel indignantly anywhere and rave.
Well, God help us, now my father’s will is God’s.
At games and naming he beat Adam. He loved his Eve.
I knew him and his wicked tongue. What he had, he gave.
I do not know where to go to do it, but I grieve.