Declaration
by Lynn Veach Sadler
I never talk devotion,
never let passion heat
(except in dreams I cannot help).
I don’t chew on love
as if it were bones
to suck its marrow out
while—before—it sucks out mine.
Bones is it, all right.
And connective tissue.
Blood, brain . . . corpus callosum,
all the pieces I can name
but never touch.
(Yes, I tried the formalities of Church.)
Even in this mean century,
devotion I say, for
I never knew man,
will still be maid (old maid, then)
when Death takes me
to . . . Wherever.
(Yes, I tried the formalities of Church.)
I dread the taking.
Death will fly me beyond doubt
to That One most call God.
That One, doubtless,
will set me afloat in the universe
as a scattering, smattering of atoms.
Some simple bird will eat my heart,
take my maidenhead.
That, at least, I’ll like.
Gyroscope Review !35