Arguments of Everlasting Poem

Arguments of Everlasting Poem By Brigit Pegeen Kelly

My mother
gathers gladiolas: the little tubes
shout and clamor: a poppling
of unstoppled laughter: the guileless leaps
and quiet plosives
of the fountain when it is working: when
mechanics and meaning are flush
and untroubled. Not like
my brother’s stammer: speech and its edicts
broken by that intruder
between tongue and tooth: something
winged: of insect color.
My mother
gathers gladiolas. The gladness
is fractured. As when
the globe with its thousand mirrors
cracked the light. How
it hoarded sight: all the stolen perspectives
and the show of light
they shot around us: so that
down the dark hall the ghosts danced
with us: down the dark hall
the broken angels.
What keeps
the grass from slipping? The steep
grass? Like my brother
it imitates the stone’s arrest: this done
this done and nothing
doing. In the face of the wind
it plants its foot
and fights its own going:
a travelling line
of adamance.
My mother,
the doves are in full cry
this morning.
The leaves are heavy
with silken grieving: soft packages
of sorrow: cacophonies
of sighing. It is a pretty
thing, a pretty thing,
the light lathered like feathers,
and the day’s spendage,
beginning. The flag unspools its furl
above the school,
pulsing out and out: a wake
of color on the air:
blue: red: blue:
and how white the sky is. How white.

Arguments of Everlasting Poem

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