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Philomela

poem about a minor mythological woman

What protection did she have against him, his face
as familiar as her own, his voice breaking
in all the right places? There were even tears in his eyes
as he described the solemn procession, the heavy smoke
struggling into the sky.

And when his hands began their careful work,
she thought only of comfort, only of the immensity
of grief. What else could she do but accept him,
her body as impartial as glass?

In the end, of course, we are all left speechless by these acts,
whatever protest we might utter as inarticulate
as trees in a sudden high wind.

__________
Copyright 2019 Marguerite Floyd all rights reserved