The Waiting Room

Bend an ear by the tomato pots,
Beneath the loam and garden sward
O’er bent by pumpkin’s leafing splayed,
A rasping murmur from un-decay:

“We are the dead among the dead;
Stones among the silent stones.
Quietly quench our eager thirst
in hopes of wine and blood.

Ulysses first, our councils sought;
Aeneas for Anchises’ words
Held us off with stygian blades.
Then Sol’mon’s witch, our birth betrayed.

We are the dead among the dead.
Thirsting still with Father’s bones
But none, redemption for us durst,
For we who lived afore the flood.

I am old in death and by death caught,
Here amidst the heathen horde.
Long and silent, staying and stayed,
Longing and silent for Frigga’s day.”

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