A necklace pinned to a chest
And now nailed into my palm–
And in a feeling of general, amazed unrest
I hold this silvery golden river gone calm.
I’ve watched it many times before,
Twinkling above her breasts,
Growing very old and very poor–
This cold resting necklace, pinned to a young woman’s chest.
My finger, crouched and feeling
Clutching this dead body in a hand,
Holding him, and losing
(in my very own forestlands).
And with my little thumb I press and rub and feel
At all his little silent grooves–
His grooved little mouth, and eyes, and heels,
I press and press and press and press–
On such a sweet little thing busy blooming on another’s chest.
Dumb with provenance
And meekness, and grace
Suffering on a cross
So that we all may save some face.
His eyes are downcast,
Splendid, and chilling,
And his cheek a little turned
At the absence, of feeling.
And so–
Hushed, and gruesome,
Bowing his head,
I observed his soul listening
To the wondrously ill wishes of the dead.
Little Christ!–
good Christ!–
a Christ as much as he–
Dangling on this soft little necklace pinned to a chest–
as much as I am me.
