MY SON'S TEACHER

My son is four. His teacher swooned on a grey pavement
Five miles from here and died. From where she lay, her new skirt
Flapped and fluttered, a green flag, half-mast, to proclaim death's
Minor triumphs. The wind was strong, the poor men carried
Pink elephant-gods to the sea that day. They moved in
Long gaudy processions, they clapped cymbals, they beat drums
And they sang aloud, she who lay in a faint was drowned
in their song. The evening paper carried the news. He
Bathed, drank milk, wrote two crooked lines of Ds and waited.
But the dead rang no doorbell. He is only four.
For many years he will not be told that tragedy
Flew over him one afternoon, an old sad bird, and
Gently touched his shoulder with its wing.
 

THE DESCENDANTS
 

We have spent our youth in gentle sinning
Exchanging some insubstantial love and 
Often thought we were hurt, but no pain in
Us could remain, no bruise could scar or
Even slightly mar our cold loveliness.
We have lain in every weather, nailed, no, not
To crosses, but to soft beds and against
Softer forms, while the heaving, lurching,
Tender hours passed in a half-dusk, half-dawn and
Half-dream, half-real trance. We were the yielders,
Yielding ourselves to everything. It is
Not for us to scrape the walls of wombs for
Memories, not for us even to
Question death, but as child to mother's arms
We shall give ourselves to the fire or to
The hungry earth to be slowly eaten,
Devoured. None will step off his cross
Or show his wounds to us, no god lost in
Silence shall begin to speak, no lost love
Claim us, no, we are not going to be
Ever redeemed, or made new.