story421.xml

story421.xml

born-digital

story

yes

no

2002-04-15

Wax

I see wax along the promenade
in alcoves at the end of each street
dried flowers tied to railings
adorning huddles of burnt candles
broken glass
nervous petals
melted wax, red and white:
swollen drops of blood
giant teardrops
now gray with soot
wafting across the river.

Across the river
acrid clouds
corrupt the sky
in the night rescue lights
search what's left
no one believes life is there.

What's left are street shrines
in parks, around lampposts
along walls and fences
throughout the rent city--
and in Chicago, Amarillo, San Francisco--
ground zero coast-to-coast;
shrines of vigil, of violation
the helpless debris of candlelight strangers
bearing witness and longing.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd
Lincoln's lonely corpse traveling by rail:
Countless torches lit, Whitman sang,
the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang--
from Washington, Chillicothe, Terre Haute--
to Springfield's damp earth.

War follows grief follows war
water destroys fire, fire destroys water
amid charred memorials photos of buoyant faces
endearing heartrending smiles;
whispers within the wax
even now a relit candle burns
raindrops poured away
to distinguish among the extinguished
cremation--simply--was unfair.

Anguished Auden wrote of an earlier September:
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.
We must love one another or die. . .
Certainly April now is not the cruelest month.

Across the river the sun like the soot
also rises on the horizon.
Bard Thomas railed for the living,
railed in behalf of the dead:
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light!

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