My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death.
— Matthew 26:38
Here in the field the sun sends out
its ochre, shade in some patch
of flowers, and soon warblers will sleep
in the pear trees. How effortlessly
night arranges itself, summons
children from play, gathers owls
and crickets to prepare like Saint Luke
for penitent sinners. At dusk, when the angled moon
rises, Anne, who calls herself
Anguish, crosses the field. I am, she says, daughter of
a dark meadow, lie down,
hear night pushing into dirt,
through goldenrod hear angels sighing,
(and you must believe in angels
for the god in the garden is alone.
After Anne kneels down in the meadow, she
weaves reeds into a crown.
And I become Anne in the garden,
and glimpse a star, hanging like a face, which has
wrinkles of an old woman, calling me daughter of
a dark meadow.
In pitches muffled like the wind our words are
secrets too sad for the living.