Uncertainties
St. Bridget’s is a rubble-built church,
its woodcarvings are water-gilt—
like a geode hammer-halved.
The vulture tree at yard’s edge
has no Latin name in psalter
or guide book—there is no hope
but has its cruelty.
His neck is tied in silk—
a faulty knot of noose—
and the wedding suit worn to funerals
is the irony of an alcoholic
who masquerades as himself.
He reports himself missing
but denies the search party
a diagnosis, a description, a finger-pointed
direction.
Your son’s ashes are spread upon the hill
and oaks are asked to take him up, to let
him fly from our uncertainties. Peace,
patched and quilted by strangers,
is never the comfort intended.
Can wounds that are inked words ever scab over?
The ballpoint skips near depletion, an ellipsis,
just missing the solace
that could have been,
the wisdom that could have sutured
experience.
Frederick Wilbur
Courtesy of David Abercrombie via Flickr.
Frederick Wilbur’s poetry collection is As Pus Floats the Splinter Out. His work has or will appear in Shenandoah, Main Street Rag, The Comstock Review, The Dalhousie Review, Rise Up Review, and Mojave River Review. He was awarded the Stephen Meats Award by Midwest Quarterly (2017). He is the co-editor of poetry for Streetlight Magazine.