My grandfather at ninety-three
On his deathbed clutching
To his breast a prayer book in leather, soft and black
The edges gilt, the pages onion-skin.
Over and over he reads one prayer,
An oracle which says:
At the center of existence is an enigma,
From the broad shoulders down an athlete,
Staggering under a bull’s head black and hornèd
Black and hornèd, bellowing
He bellows to shape human words
In the shadow of walls dark and high,
A heartless maze perfect and cunning.
Even now a young man is groping his way toward you,
He carries no double-bladed ax, but a cord
Attached to a woman in the sunlight.
She has placed on the altar
A branch of olive wrapped in white wool.

Atop Mount Pisgah, just before his death
Moses saw Jericho, city of palms below on the plain of Moab,
Then God buried Moses in Nebo in a valley over against Bethpeor.
Yahweh worse than an orphan,
Never knew mother’s love or father’s blessing,
Brother’s strength or sister’s sweet comfort,
Among all creatures one friend
And now in a secret valley he knelt
Lifting black earth over his shoulder
Burrowing into new sorrow.

Oedipus glows with dread light,
His hand weak in Antigone’s grasp.
At the frontier of Attica he dreams:
The god says, ‘Innocent man, your ancestor’s sacrilege
Was etched in your body.
Our gift is burial on a blessèd isle,
For you have guessed one of our secrets.’

Wily Odysseus golden-tongued,
Trident poised in air wades into the surf,
When he recalls Tiresias’s words,
Blood-fed Tiresias in Hades,
Death most gentle will come to you from the sea,
From the sea gently in old age
And dolphins breach and the sheets of water
Sliding from their sides are silver
They are playful and swift
And the sea smells of hyacinth.

September 13th, 2006