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
construct forms,
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 offer
of plea bargain
she had not
to her own demise
nor was she blaming
for theirs
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
a song had been born
from her tears
The Song
had been born

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

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
seemed to spring

so effortlessly
and without
they feared it
like sorrow,
or discomfort,
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
they wondered if
her song
was somehow
about them
though it bore
no 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
they feared it
and hated it
because they couldn’t hold it,
touch it,
make it definable,
or give it a label

or box
to make it safe
for human consumption
it was too unpredictable,
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 wombman

had birthed
they feared

it must be swifter
more direct
than them
and their inhuman
as if this spirit
this spirit
of hers
this non material
this conception
always had
a mind
of its own
was a mind
of its own
different than theirs
from their plans
for her
and the child-song’s
greater good
didn’t the wombman

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

inviting them
to dine
on invisible abundance,
the invisible laughing
like a beautiful,
dinner bell chime
how crazy was that
how inappropriate
it was
for a funeral
how dare she
who was she
how was she
still alive
yet alone,
they wondered,
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
we thought
we eliminated
centuries ago
for her own sake
when we condemned her
for understanding
the fruit
of the tree
the first time
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 he’ll have to
come out
show his face
show us
who he really is
that which we cannot
or reflect
in our own image
a likeness
that we
can’t even see
they came at her

with weapons
of mass destruction
but their fire
would not catch,
or burn those living trees
that she’d nurtured
with her own hands
only their suits
and their instruments
of death
caught fire
and their own hands
matched their clothing
dirty now
and marked
with inky black soot
she calmly reproving 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 his rebirth
at the death
of your own
for yours is what’s
no longer useful
an empty chalice,
metal vessel
all along


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