strategies for survival
By Beryle Williams [1]
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Our fossilized bones
someday may lie
slipped scarcely beneath
the dark upper loam
of earth, "finds"
for the children
with gilt hair
and body suits of gold mail
or some fine fabric made
possible by the discovery
of that one fail-safe element.
Old body
be determined
to leave nothing but dust
for these sun-charmed children.
Bones are nothing
but messages
saying repeat me, love me
back into shape
that I was, clacking
their fleshless way
into the hearts
of children born forgetting
they have them.
Crumble, bones, scatter
gnash yourselves to nothing
like teeth of fitful sleepers
do not claim what you were
nor offer yourselves up
for inspection
rejection
collection
and especially not for
loving reconstruction.
The world has had enough
of love--it often breeds
and feeds such moral
hates.
Better, we say, to leave
these wandering children
wandering
than to trip them up
with absurd old relics of a kind
that destroyed itself
for love
of too much
or perhaps
of too little
in too great amounts but nevertheless
for love.
Better, we say (in the dark, and only
when our own children sleep)
to leave no trace
that might entice
that one slightly curious
star-eyed drifter
(too like these vulnerable ones
we've known) away from aimless
care-less drifting...better,
we whisper...and dream
separately
secretly
of arrows on rocks, scripts in caves,
bulges in earth just strange enough
to tempt a digger, leave clues
all through the restless night
until children, bright-faced
and gilt-haired in sunlight
wake these late sleepers
to morning.
[1] "Reprinted with grateful acknowledgement to Atomic Ghost, Coffee House Press, 1995, and Grounds for Peace, Women Against Military Madness, 1994, and to the Colorado Poets Center website of the University of Northern Colorado, http://colopoets.unco.edu where this poem has previously appeared."