Ballad of the Next War

I had a son named John.
Yes. I had a son.
On a Friday. Gone. Faded.
Beneath the amplifications,
Day of the Dead.
He was lost in the arches.
I watched him dancing his jig
On the final broken steps
Of the Mass, lowering
A bucket of tin deep
Into the Gideon’s heart.
I beat on the coffins,
On the catafalques.
My boy, my boy, my boy!–
Now wrapped and wound
Like a Man of the Cloth.
I pulled a wishbone from the dark
And prayed to Thoth.

Once I had a little girl.
Once I had a dead doll
Of ashes.
Once I had a dead sea.
Of what? Of my Totems,
Of my Fathers!–
I prayed to Thoth,
Climbing up the ladders
To receive the moon’s
Blue pencil. I saw
The luminous flesh
Of the Ibis holding
The principles of ma'at
That keep the balance,
That weigh the hearts.
I saw the priests
Of He who is like the Ibis,
Spilling the mule, the ox.

Once I had a son who was a Spartan.
Once I had a son. My God!–my God!
Like Icarus. Eaten by the sky.
If my boy had been the Scorpion,
I wouldn’t have to choke the crocodiles
Waiting in ambush. Or have had to see
The wind lashed to the trees
For the diaphanous clear-cut pleasure
Of phenomena.
If only my boy had been a Scorpion!–
I would lie down in the rain and wrap myself
In the rough grey canvas of a mummy’s cloth
So I wouldn’t have to kill the moss.
Well then. I know very well the insanity
Of penguins and gulls that will sleep and sing
On the city corners, saying
Once, my God, I had a son! My boy!–my boy!