I know, I know. Poets are supposed to be writing about wine and roses, the arrival of spring, zephyrs, and so forth.
My Muse isn’t the least BIT interested — this is her truth this ‘cruellest month’… Bear with me…
CALL IT BLASPHEMY
listen, God
I’ll trade You
I’ll take those three hours, any day!
forget this sentence of eight entire decades
even the scourging – what was that
an hour or so?
when you have a cruel mother
you are afraid everywhere
even in utero
o.k., so there was the Via Dolorosa
mine the VIE Dolorosa
and nobody helped carry the heavy wood burdens
no kind person wiped tears from my face
on that foreign balcony above a sea
when I finally realized that both daughters
were now the property of a cult
–over thirty years ago, Lord,
longer than they were IN my life
ah, You say, but there was the Agony in the Garden
indeed, every seed and bulb I planted
was the attempted burial of agony
“Will you not watch one hour with Me?”
I have been watching eight decades, Lord
waiting for faith like a mustard seed
belief in just touching the hem of Your garment
believing in mercy
Listen, God
I’ll trade
CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN
April 12, 2018
