The Line Ends Here, and I Am Well
I.
I have not sown my sorrow into sons,
nor bent my breath to bless a bridal bed;
I spend my seasons under foreign suns,
with wine warm men and midnight words instead.
My mother's gone to ground, my father's grey,
my brotherās brood burns bright in busy rooms;
their little lives run parallel each day
while I keep faith with trains and tiding moons.
āThe line ends here, and I am well,ā say I,
who watch this wounded world with widened eyes;
Withholding flesh from further grief and cry,
a quiet kindness where more blood denies.
Call childless hearts not selfish, but awake,
who spend themselves on strangers for loveās sake.
II.
Bangkokās bright bruise, that breathless, burning heat,
Londonās long lanes in rain, slow, silver cold,
soft Spanish nights with music in the street,
all press their prints upon my travelling soul.
Men move like meteors through my midnightsā mesh,
sweet, sudden sparks on sheets and kitchen tiles,
their laughter, low, their hands on haunted flesh,
brief, blessed storms of body, breath and smiles.
No crib, no christening cup, no clattering spoons,
yet crowded is my chest with chosen light;
their names, like necklaces, are knotted moons
that swing and sing inside me when I write.
The line ends here, yet love, in cunning streams,
still floods my days and populates my dreams.
III.
My kin keep house with children, chores and cries,
with schoolyard scars and small, soft, sticky hands;
their tender chaos fills their careful skies,
while I keep watch on other, harsher lands.
My nieces, nephews, nimble, near and far,
grow like green grasses I have scarcely seen;
I bless them softly, speaking to one star,
then shoulder bags and walk where I have been.
For there are others, scattered, secret, sane,
quiet queer aunts and uncles, single, still,
who see this sorrowed earth in all its pain
and choose in mercy not to add more will.
The line ends here, and we are well, not weak,
our empty arms hold all for whom we speak.