Donald, Woodrow, Helen
Reborn in other creatures, souls must haunt
Us. How could it be otherwise? He knows
It cannot be his brother Donald, gaunt
Upon his cancer bed and in the throes
Of death, but when owlet’s voice cries out,
Cries out, cries out, implacably, ruthless,
The doctrine hurts the living ones. Its shout,
Shout, shout is hardly made of gums; toothless
It won’t be. Poor Joe’s steps along in brine
Of little waves, lagoon-wise, remind of
Of crumbling death and thus of father, mine
And yours. That murdered soul insists on love.
And mother can be known in mockingbird
Snatched phrases every time that they are heard.
~ Phillip Whidden