Iona Mountain House No Country for Old Men
Kleinbard, David
Poetry David Kleinbard Iona Here where the sun sets past midnight Dawn was at one, the ball rolled so fast You could never catch up and were always In danger of falling off. A murderous priest...
...Like, this morning, he could...
...So many places To watch from...
...But the old gods Breathe on these cliffs...
...Built into a hill, it looks over the top And down into pines...
...Brows working, he opens his eyes, One is glass, the other sees blurs, And raises a tied hand Which I take and hold Until my brother wants to leave...
...He moves his head from side to side, Trying, trying to adjust the thick tube Down his throat...
...The green dot lights "Assist," Flicks off, flicks on...
...In the hot rain gypsy moths frenzy...
...Some say yes, and some say no...
...Petals within petals...
...And let him drown...
...As 1 start to walk away, He raises the hand again, And, as I clasp it, voiceless, Unable to shape his mouth, Struggles to speak with those eyes.gles to speak with those eyes...
...They smile in the thick light Falling silent over the simple stones of nameless walls, Bare hints of chapels left by fourteen hundred years...
...They've wandered Out to sea like tides caught by the moon, in winter When our flat, thin sun must set at noon...
...All kings of Scotland through Macbeth, two of France, One from Norway came in funeral ships and were borne Up the Way of the Dead lined by Celtic Christs...
...Day alone in a house full of rooms...
...The tree frog's scaly fingers look relaxed As naked toes asleep on a pedal, While the white-nosed, white-Lipped, white-browed amorous animal Drowses, wide-eyed in the mouth of elation...
...Weeks ago All swallowing stopped...
...Its back is rock...
...Off its front Space is falling, Nothing to hold...
...Midsummer leaves are half gone...
...He preached to seals philandering in thousands Of nameless flowers on the beach...
...No Country for Old Men The end is hard The questions are: Shall we take out The breathing tube And let him go...
...Why aren't they swabbing his mouth...
...A murderous priest Brought God to this isle of endless space...
...His lungs fill up...
...The graveyard is too full...
...Walking at night, Unwary visitors have lost their wits...
...A tree frog watches in the full cup Of a pink rose clinging to the house Below my bay window...
...Mountain House Rain sputters all night in the downspout...
...A respiration therapist In shades, dirty white coat, And braids, explains: "What counts for us is, Can you breathe on your own At least some of the time...
...The blue tubes are taped to one end Of his lips, which they pull awry...
Vol. 123 • December 1996 • No. 22
