Artless
–Brenda Shaughnessy
is my heart. A stranger
berry there never was,
tartless.Gone sour in the sun,
in the sunroom or moonroof,
roofless.No poetry. Plain. No
fresh, special recipe
to bless.All I’ve ever made
with these hands
and life, lesssubstance, more rind.
Mostly rim and trim,
meatlessbut making much smoke
in the old smokehouse,
no less.Fatted from the day,
overripe and even
toxic at eve. Nonetheless,in the end, if you must
know, if I must bend,
waistless,to that excruciation.
No marvel, no harvest
left me speechless,yet I find myself
somehow with heart,
aloneless.With heart,
fighting fire with fire,
fightless.That loud hub of us,
meat stub of us, beating us
senseless.Spectacular in its way,
its way of not seeing,
congealing daylessbut in everydayness.
In that hopeful haunting
(a lesserway of saying
in darkness) there is
silencelessnessfor the pressing question.
Heart, what art you?
War, star, part? Or less:playing a part, staying apart
from the one who loves,
loveless.