2015 10 27
I drive home from work as a cartographer
each evening, nap, eat supper, then read poems.
This week I am reading poems by two cousins,
Edwin Arlington Robinson and Robert Lowell,
for I am descended from Anne Bradstreet,
and they are descended from her two sisters.
We all walk the same labyrinth of dreams,
ascend the moon-lit flat-top pyramid,
and sing tales of lost souls to all lost souls
who sit around the umbilical fire
of our national clan under listening stars
to relate tragicomic tales of human life.
We are the bards who escaped Dudley Castle,
sailed the angry Atlantic, seeking Eden
to build a shining city on the hill,
but instead cast spells in dark leafless woods
when the moon beams on Salem, Massachusetts.
We chant hymns about the sorrows of life
while wearing the masks of people we love
under the Tale Tree on Halloween Night.