Seraphim

By Kaitlyn Grissom

There are certain moments of timeless lucidity

Certain images for which the poet craves

Some sort of living photograph

And so the dank-eyed wordsmith slaves to save

The sophisticated savage salvages

Certain places, certain times,

Traces memorable shadows, preserves faces

Waits until later

And sets them to rhyme.

Scant are these for fools like me;

So far I’ve gathered only three.

Poetry will scarcely suffice.

Words alone won’t do them justice.

But in looking back I’ve noticed

Something like consistency:

They all take place beneath a tree.

The first in autumn, when the leaves let go

I lost my common sense.

The next in winter, twirling in the snow,

We trudged along the fence.

Fleecy flakes on your dark hair

I laughed to see you standing there

With shreds of lace upon your head.

The tree above was black and dead,

The air was cold and tense,

But even these cannot compare

To what has happened since.

The sky was purple, dark and vast

The light of day was fading fast

The last silhouette

Hung above us, slung low

And swinging fast.

The trampoline was wet

And you should know

That the porchlight on your neck

As we sat there on the deck

The curve of you, the line of you,

In the downpour, shining faintly

Made me think of an seraph once painted so saintly

And so subtly, in the background

Of the teacher’s stony passionless Christ

So much wearier, so inferior,

That,

Because he knew that his student had surpassed him,

And because of the brilliant curve of the angel’s neck,

The man killed himself.