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Stephen Edgar
The
Story
At
evening by her father’s chair,
His
tender hand upon her hair,
She
turns from one page to the next
Her
book of macaronic text,
Each
sentence marked by some small blur
(A
blankness that is Greek to her).
At
some her forehead’s creased by doubt;
But
more she never knows about,
Which
innocently prophesy
Her
heritage of loss and lie.
In a
room that has no windows, ranks
Of
certain men count up such blanks,
Which
they record, graph and assess,
Extrapolating
more from less.
And
though the process is involved
Much
retrospectively is solved
And
set down in official script.
Then
into each known blank is slipped
A
datum that they feed back out;
But
some they never learn about,
And
these malignly multiply
Their
heritage of loss and lie.
In
private councils of the great
They
ergotize, evaluate
The
ends to which they might direct
Intelligences
they collect,
Miraculously,
so it seems,
From
errors, absences and dreams,
The
mind’s interstices -- although,
Some
absences they never know,
And
these confirm, as they defy,
Their
heritage of loss and lie.
At
home, the master of this land
Extends
a father’s tender hand
To
his daughter’s head, his tender look
Scanning
her macaronic book,
And
speaks of what to her is Greek.
But
there is that he may not speak,
And
cannot, for he too must trace
Lost
words, but in a different place
(In
spite of all that he directs,
More
than he knows, and in more texts),
And
these implacably supply
His
heritage of loss and lie.
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