The world was still washing its hands
when Susannah slipped;
her fragile glass, spun on a spring-wet morning,
lifting to other hands that were gentle, kind,
warm as the sway of apple blossom,
to fold around
her shining
whole,
thin and curling,
clear,...
But no, they said, her mother’s come,
she wants her;
and they lifted her back,
the sparkling dulled,
the bubbles drying, smeared,
as the blossoms drifted down
the air.
It’s not for me to decide, said Pilate,
bring me water.
We must have proof of risk.
The world was still washing its hands
when Sussanah slipped.
Behind a dirty window,
tucked with emerald moss,
two mother’s hands, rough as canker,
shook and beat her,
snapped the quiet stem.
Sussanah died in May and the sun was shining.
(post
April, 1977)
