We Are Marble

We Are Marble

 

by

 

Matt McGuire

 

If this were the hall

of a ring decked king

and I was he

who wielded war

and granted fiefs,

I might hold you aloft

and shout

“See my son! Shield of my Days!”

But I am a poor man,

a mere Volkswagen shoveller of dust,
time and tree bark,

humble, paperback laden,

and we are not there

in the mists of a history

bound in leather, gilt in

gold.

You and I, and your mother asleep

Cooing through

the blanket of her exhaustion

while an IV hums and Newton's clock

ticks deliberate and merciless

my second chances away.

The past, now—my all is alive in you,

in me, we three

when I feel your skin

hot, sweet, and needy

against this chest of a man

rattlling with smoke, labor and days.

I am—the true I, no longer a pauper

dreaming castles and lances,

no Fisher King

Grail thirsty and weak.

Strong, hale,

Gray and proud,

Once again I drink the wine of courage,

my serenity a carved colonnade fending
seasons with grace.

This night is fertile.

It is not finished.

Aran's drape and warm blood courses

Between thee and me.

Sleep deeply, for the hard earth

waits patient and meek.

I will give battle to all

the second hands

and worried heartbeats.

We are marble, a dynasty of hopes,

though our clothes reek of coal.