At The Executed Murderer’s Grave
Above all, how can we do such a thing?
How can it possibly be done? –Freud
In Martins Ferry, Ohio, where one slave
To Hazel-Atlas Glass became my father.
He tried to teach me kindness. I return
Only in memory now, aloof, unhurried,
To dead Ohio, where I might lie buried,
Had I not run away before my time.
Ohio caught George Doty. Clean as lime,
His skull rots empty here. Dying’s the best
Of all the arts men learn in a dead place.
I walked here once. I made my loud display,
Leaning for language on a dead man’s voice.
Now sick of lies, I turn to face the past.
I add my easy greivance to the rest:
Doty, if I confess I do not love you,
The nights electrocute my fugitive,
My mind. I run like the bewildered mad
At St. Clair Sanitarium, who lurk,
Arch and cunning, under the maple trees,
Staring to bed, they croon self-lullabies.
Doty, you make me sick. I am not dead.
I croon my tears at fifty cents a line.
Idiot, he demanded love from girls,
and murdered one. Also, he was a thief.
The hair, foul as a dog’s upon his head,
Made such revolting Ohio animals
Fitter for vomit than a kind man’s grief.
And no love’s lost between me and the crying
Drunks of Belaire, Ohio, where police
Kick at their kidneys till they die of drink.
Christ may restore them whole, for all of me.
Alive and dead, those giggling muckers who
Saddled my nightmares thirty years ago
Can do without my widely printed sighing
Over their pains with paid sincerity.
I do not pity the dead, I pity the dying.
If Belmont County killed him, what of me?
His victims never loved him. Why should we?
And yet, nobody had to kill him either.
The quicklime hole of a man’s defeat and shame.
Nature-lovers are gone. To hell with them.
I kick the clods away, and speak my name.
This grave’s gash festers. Maybe it will heal,
When all are caught with what they had to do
By the last sea,
To lay away their robes, to judge the earth
And its dead, and we dead stand undefended everywhere,
And my bodies–father and child and unskilled criminal–
Ridiculously kneel to bare my scars,
My sneaking crimes, to God’s unpitying stars.
Staring politely, they will not mark my face
From any murderer’s, buried in this place.
Why should they? We are nothing but a man.
Doty, the rapist and murderer,
Sleeps in a ditch of fire, and cannot hear;
And where, in earth or hell’s unholy peace,
Men’s suicides will stop, God knows, not I.
Angels and pebbles mock me under trees.
Earth is a door I cannot even face.
Order be damned, I do not want to die,
Even to keep Belaire, Ohio, safe.
The hackles on my neck are fear, not grief.
(Open, dungeon! Open roof of the ground!)
I hear the last sea in the Ohio grass,
Heaving a tide of gray disastrousness.
Wrinkles of winter ditch the rotted face
Of Doty, killer, imbecile, and thief:
Dirt of my flesh, defeated, underground.
Online Source: http://www.it.cc.mn.us/literature/grave.html
The dark wheat listens.
There they are, the moon’s young, trying
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.
Online Source: http://www.palace.net/~llama/poetry/beginning