Rest for the body's residue: boxed ashes, earth pocket under its lifted flap of turf roofed by a black circumference of Norway spruce, an old settler now among old settlers, in their numb stores' cooled silicates the scar of memory benighted alone articulate. O friable repose of the organic! Bark-creviced at the trunk's foot, ladybirds' enameled herds gather for the winter, red pearls of an unsaid rosary to waking. From the fenced beanfield, crickets' brisk scrannel plucks the worn reed of individual survival. Mulleins hunker to a hirsute rosette about the taproot; from frayed thistleheads, a liftoff of aerial barbs begins; milkweed spills on the wind its prodigal, packed silks--slattern gondolas whose wrecked stalks once gave mooring to the sleep of things terrestrial: an urn of breathing jade, its gilt-embossed exterior the intact foreboding of a future intricately contained, jet- veined, spangle-margined, birth-wet russet of the air- traveling monarch emerging from a torpid chrysalis. Oh, we know nothing of the universe we move through! My dead brother, when we were kids, fed milkweed caterpillars in Mason jars, kept bees, ogled the cosmos through a backyard telescope. But then the rigor of becoming throttled our pure ignorance to mere haste toward something else. We scattered. Like the dandelion, that quintessential successful immigrant, its offspring gone to fluff, dug-in hard-scrabble nurtured a generation of the mobile, nomads enamored of cloverleafs, of hangars, of that unrest whose home--our home--is motion. Here in the winds' terrain, the glacier-abraded whetstone of their keening knives, anvil of thunder, its sabbaths one treacherous long sob of apprehension, who will rein in, harpoon or anchor rest for the mind? Were the dead to speak, were one day these friable residues to rise, would we hear even that airborne murmur, Listen as the monarchs' late-emerging tribes ascend; you will hear nothing. In wafted twos and threes you may see them through the window of a southbound Greyhound bus, adrift across the Minnesota border; or in flickering clots, in dozens above the parked cars of the shopping malls of Kansas--this miracle that will not live to taste the scarce nectar, the ample horror of another summer: airborne marathon, elegaic signature of nations who have no language, their landless caravans augment among the blistered citadels of Oklahoma; windborne along the Dallas-Fort Worth airport's utopian thoroughfares, their hovering millenniums become a mimic force of occupation, a shadeless Vallombrosa, forceless, autonomous. O drifting apotheosis of dust exhumed, who will unseal the crypt locked up within the shimmer of the chromosomes, or harvest, from the alluvial death-dance of these wrecked galaxies, this risen residue of milkweed leaf and honey, rest for the body? |
© 1987 Amy Clampitt