The Harps Plucked Through the Howl

[Medusafern]

Oliver's Miasm

I.
In the beginning
or end I did this
to you my child.
I delivered you
your life
a box of devils
tied to your toes
and wanted to know
are they all there?
Count them to ten
and again
before I go to sleep.
I did this.
Was it my sin
spasmed in
your brain-stem
my dis-ease
come wrapped
in teeth?
Belly-mouth
you entered through -
I numbered
what I saw of you
and then I
went to sleep.

II.
Enter I
your whirling dervish dream.
Shame of words
not coming out
just so
a carousel
you cannot slow
a sky is falling here.
These convulsions
ransom breath.
Muscles fall to gruel or mush,
your little deaths, now
scars the evidence.
What traipses off
on sticky cloven hooves
so that you feel it cling,
reside, persist.
Long-time leaving beast
cares nothing
that you tremor, weep.

III.
That when your bruises heal
and wounds are washed clean.
That when the moon remains
half-mast, so you can see,
and it is safe to look directly
at the sun.
That if my potions,
oils of root or fish or bane -
cannot untie the knots I made,
and you have taught me
all you know of love,
and we are closer
to an end -
I will say, your laughter
painted angels on each wall.
And that you often called me back from Hell
to hear the harps
plucked through the howl.

Hillary Hays
1994

[lizzytysh]

"I will say, your laughter
painted angels on each wall.
And that you often called me back from Hell
to hear the harps
plucked through the howl."

Yes. I know you will, Hillary. I'm sorry you have taken on the guilt. I'm glad you continue to work through it. I'm grateful you see the immeasurable joy in your child. You add to the value of his life with every day you share it. Vivid and heart-rending images and emotions, with a mother's sense of time. It's unfair to pull from it, when III in its entirety warrants focus. Your poems are like Shamanic guides to healing places. The harps. "The harps plucked through the howl."

Sincerely,
Elizabeth