Epitaph
You would never have known
youth from old age
if the sky had not
split
from earth, spring
from winter, and winter
from the common rut
of the calling ground.
You can’t see your face
in the river any more. Nor mine,
that has worn to wrinkles
like the tide that worries out
at evening.
Now earth hands hold you,
pull you down like a root: you never knew
your own springs, cursed
the mother of all living,
forced names on the fatherless beasts.
Silenced, you go before me,
my sweet light locked
in your vanquished eyes. Even I shall follow,
though you did not know.
For while I, in fear, saw my one flesh grow,
possessed by the life that slept within,
you trod by the river, alone, lamenting
your empty belly,
your unknown sin.