from Horae Paganicae
1988; University of Missouri; Volume: 11; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/mis.1988.0056
ISSN1548-9930
Autores Tópico(s)Archaeology and Natural History
Resumofrom HORAE PAGANICAE / Brooks Haxton LAUDS Having done lauds without a word, in the dead of night, in the house of the dead, the moment after my quiet uncle quit sleep, kind talk, pain of cancer, widowerhood, cigars, and sickroom, having out of the full moon swatched on a single sheet arisen into my fifth year's first night waking, stepped on worn wood, walked out barefoot, stopped at the screen door, latched, in the back hall, taken my place at the dead man's exit, having looked up uncomprehending, stood, confused by sleep, to listen, seen screen dark with bee swarm seething, clotted with bee mass black to the streetlight, torn mesh mended with cotton twine, stitch of kitestring's lightning zigzag, swarm sound fierce as a struck transformer, breeze from bee wings touching my face under the moving lobe of shadow, pollen prickling into my nose, dust from the gut of the day world's flowers dusting my throat, my tongue in darkness, thus, having prayed where swarmed bees pray, 148 · The Missouri Review stood, till my mother lifting returned me into a pale bed, into the moon sign under my window, into my wondering what in the deathbloom brought bees down from forty feet, down from the hollow pecan past midnight—childish in wonder, thoughtful, alive to the fear of death, deliberate, supine, alert to the body's removal (out by the front door past false dawn toward equivocal daybreak), arisen again, having gone through last dark into the dead man's room unattended, out of the bedside drawer having drawn the single most forlorn possession— pocketsize, push-button, battery-powered electrical voicebox, unlaid ghost of my uncle's voice, only voice of his last year living, into the hall with it, unlocked the oak door inside the screen, stood in the stain of the streetlight's shadow, bees at orison or in frenzy pendant on the rust-thick fabric, first few trailing free through the dim hall where in the loser's grip of childhood, dead man's voicebox singing inside my fist, things tore on wordless into the humming SEXT Sext, flak-jacketed, over a small LZ, chopper tilting, Minigun kicking Brooks Haxton The Missouri Review · 249 ditchwater over the rice, nothing to catch the eye of a gunner, thatched roofs west one click, jungle, and no hint of fire but for the one man sitting, legs in GI green unbloused, thigh bones at a near-right angle, this the caller, body slumped, radio strapped to the back, still-warm circuitry broken to hell in its case, and a dark stain spread on the sacrum, rotor head ringing Tersanctus over the damned NONE None in a late April garden, raft of ice-tarnished petals under the greening magnolia, white suede bronzed into mulch with even the mud made fragrant, tulips solid as crockery, dogwoods' four-point jointure perfected, delicate, tiered in a curving ascension, florent levels of blessedness, frailer violets close to the grassblades, sunwheels the yellow of crayons, crabapples' bark outbursting crimson all-over rained-on with elm stuff and maple, heavy the brainflower, huge, in a dark helm, neckstem half drooping, alive to the sad world here quickshot with color 250 · The Missouri Review Brooks Haxton ...
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