The Last Funeral Mass

“For what is it that kills, if not old habits, that die hard?” ~ Anonymous

let’s build in matter’s image
said man
construct forms,
byways,
strategies,
and laws
they will be necessary
for if not man
who else
will save the world?
but the sound of
woman weeping
troubled them so,
for she would not hush
nor accept offer
of plea bargain
she hadn’t
contributed
to her own demise
nor was she blaming
them
for theirs
worse,
it was rumored
she had conceived
without them
did away with genders
reflected
them both
inside of herself
and they held meeting
to determine
if they could
still call her
a her anymore
because
a song had been born
from her tears
perhaps
The Song
had been born
like
a burbling brook,
of crystal clear water,
a river,
or the motion in it
damn it
grumbled the
materialists
perhaps
it’s the wind
this background noise
so persistent
but elusive
some freak
deja vu of
human nature
the men couldn’t put
their finger on it
what they feared
about this sound
that wasn’t a sound
and this woman
who wasn’t mere woman
from whence The Song
sprang forth so effortlessly
without strategy
or presumption
they feared it
like sorrow,
or discomfort,
unplanned
and unexpected
a beautiful,
yet plaintive  
funeral song
that’s what it was
that she sang,
and they asked
isn’t this
sort of thing
illegal,
heretical,
contagious?
they wondered if
her song
was somehow
about them
though it bore
no actual resemblance
and she seemed sad
but happy
at the same time
while the song
seemed to grow
and expand
within her
yet echo back
at them
from inside out
of their own heads
perhaps
they feared it
and hated it
because they couldn’t hold it,
touch it,
make it definable,
containable,
or give it a label
form,
package
or box
to make it safe
for human consumption
hell
it was too unpredictable,
vulnerable,
wild,
free and rapid
for thought
or human logistics
like she had already shed
her own shell
without authorization
or permission
from higher command
who did she think
she was?
and though
they knew
it must be stupid,
this song,
what the bereft
had birthed
they feared
it must be swifter
more direct
than them
and their inhuman
prodigy
as if this spirit,
this spirit
of hers
this non material
thing
this conception
always had
a mind
of its own
worse
was a mind
of its own
different than theirs
free
from their plans
for her
and the child-song’s
greater good
didn’t the woman
know
they were all
in danger?
but in fact
she and her own
seemed quite at home
in their place
in the woods
where her table was set
with invisible fine things
she was
inviting them
to dine
on invisible abundance,
the invisible laughing
a beautiful,
tinkling,
dinner bell chime
how crazy was that
how inappropriate
it was
for a funeral
how dare she
who was she
how was she
even still alive
yet alone,
they wondered,
wearing
a white wedding veil
hadn’t they created
what really mattered
a material
body of knowledge
and she borne
only what couldn’t
be seen
the ghost
they thought
they eliminated
centuries ago
for her own sake
when they condemned her
for understanding
the fruit
of the tree
the first time
around?
I know
said one
how to fix this
let’s burn her house down
set fire
to her trees
that hide
the new child
from us
that way it will have to
come out
show its face
show us
who it really is
that which we cannot
contain
or reflect
in our own image
a likeness
that we
can’t even see
they came at her
then
with weapons
of mass destruction
but their fire
would not catch,
or light
it didn’t burn
those living trees
that she’d nurtured
with her own hands
only their suits
and instruments
of death
caught fire
and their own hands
matched their clothing now,
dirty and marked
with inky black soot
she calmly reproved them
saying hurry,
wash up for dinner
you’re like
soldered clocks
ticking no time,
while my labor
is complete
for this one last
funeral mass
this one
last time
we’re not celebrating
the death of my son,
we’re celebrating love’s rebirth
at the death
of your own
for yours,
the ruse,
is what’s no longer useful
an empty chalice,
a rusted metal vessel
all along