The Last Funeral Mass



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


let’s build in matter’s image
said man
and construct forms,
and byways,
and strategies,
and laws
they will be necessary
for if not man
who else
will save the world?
but the sound of
wombman weeping
troubled them so,
for she would not hush
nor accept their offer
of plea bargain
she had not
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
or 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
or perhaps
The Song
had been born
it was like

a burbling brook,
of crystal clear water,
a river
or the motion in it
damn it
grumbled the men

perhaps
it is the wind
this background noise
that’s 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 mere woman
who wasn’t mere woman
from whence The Song
sprang
without effort
or strategy
and they did fear it
like sorrow,
or discomfort,
unplanned
and unexpected
a beautiful,
yet plaintive  
funeral song
that’s what it was
that she sang,
that’s what it was
that they feared
and they asked
is not this
sort of thing
illegal,
heretical,
or 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 echoed back

at them
from inside out

of their own heads
perhaps
they feared it
and hated it so
because they couldn’t hold it,
or touch it,
to make it definable,
and containable
or give it a label
a form,
a package
or a box
to make it safe
for human consumption
hell
it was too unpredictable,
too vulnerable,
too wild,
too free,
too 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 thought
it must be stupid,
foolhardy,
this fruit
what wombman 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
or 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 wombman
and child
know they were
in danger?
in fact
she and her own
seemed quite at home
in their lovely place
in the woods
where her table was set
with invisible fine things
she invited them
to dine
on her invisible abundance,
the invisible laughing
like a beautiful,
tinkling,
dinner bell chime
how crazy was that
how inappropriate
they felt 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
had not they created
what really mattered
a material
body of knowledge
and she borne
only what couldn’t
be seen
the ghost
we thought
we eliminated
centuries ago
for her own sake
when we 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
let’s set fire

to her trees
that hide the new child
from us
that way he will have to
come out
and show his face
show us
who he really is
that which we cannot
contain
or reflect
in our own image
a likeness
that we
can’t even see
and they came at her
with weapons
of mass destruction
but the fire
would not catch,
or light,
or burn those living trees
that she had nurtured
with her own hands
only their suits
and their instruments
of death
caught fire
and their own hands
now matched their clothing
dirty
and marked
with inky black soot
she calmly reproved them
telling them to hurry
wash up for dinner
she said
you are like
soldered clocks
ticking no time,
while my labor
is complete
for this one last
funeral mass
this one
last time
we are not celebrating
the death of my son,

this time around
for he is my song
the Love of my heart
and is not made of matter
so cannot die
we are celebrating his rebirth
at the death
of your own
for yours is what
is no longer useful
the empty chalice,
a rusted metal vessel
all along








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