From What the Welsh and Chinese Have In Common

Vanity Of Sorrow

Below this moon, an old moose

tests the dark bay,

algae sliming his rough back

like the grief that follows guilt,

the grief that greets a father

as he divides his family.

All night the algae dress

the moose in their heavy glitter

until when I see him rise

he is almost iridescent

in his new hide. The moose

blazes beautifully with his burden

which halos him as if he were

a saint elevated by his suffering

or perhaps more

the way I would have myself seen

as I make a profession of pain,

as I choose that certain sadness

to hallow my guilt.

The forest closes on the moose

and the moon is healed.

This is the scene I would enshrine

in my attraction to sorrow

that I might find myself

handsome in despair,

opulent in tears;

not the tedious film

that grows on fish bones,

reminder of a raccoon's feast,

as they lie

stark and separate,

alien to the hard field

splintered by frost.

Paul_Jones@unc.edu

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