———-—after Viktor Frankl
The word in the book
————————–—on the bottom of a well
—————–—rises just so close
—————–—before it crumbles into whispers,
————————–—ash, rain
—————–—that touches the eyes
———————————–—of the starved
—————–—whose childhood did not survive
—————–—the journey.
————————–—Believe me, I have tried.
—————–—I have listened.
—————–—I cannot tell you what suffering
—————–—means, why it litters
—————————————the scriptures
—————–—that are the first to burn.
———————–—I have looked into a well
—————–—full of stares
————————–—the way a god looks
—————–—from a page in flames
————————–—and says,
————————–—so what did you expect.
—————–—Did you think your faith
—————————————would spare you,
—————–—that Job would hold out
—————————————the boils in his hands
—————–—and feel them harden into coins
—————————————that fall.
—————–—When smoke melts
————————–—the surface of your eye,
—————–—and on your lips
————————–—a faint unconscious music,
————————–—remember.
————————–—Music too is lost
—————–—among the open graves and questions,
—————–—searching for the path
—————————————it fashions with its feet.
—————–—In quiet measures
—————–—when the time that pulses is your own
————————–—contribution to the emptiness,
—————–—are you any less
————————–—a part of something larger.
—————–—Does the song to come
—————–—pull your eyesight from the well
—————–—and say,
————————–—look at what I brought you.
—————–—There, across the steeples,
—————–—a factory ash
—————–—singes the missing persons
———————————-—chalked
———————————-—in outlines on the yard.
—————–—Dear child,
—————–—with your life before you,
———————————–—look at what I made.
—————–—I who take your breathing
——————————————-—as my own.
Bruce Bond is the author of thirty-seven books, most recently Invention of the Wilderness (LSU), Therapon (with Dan Beachy-Quick, Tupelo), Vault (Richard Snyder Award, Ashland), Lunette (Green Linden), and The Dove of the Morning News (Test Site Poetry Award, Nevada).
