Throbbing in the Bush, and Pledge
- Throbbing in the Bush, and Pledge
Throbbing in the Bush
Like the sacred, round surroundof a speaker—the padded ringholding sound in place—the bush of Moses throbbed with deepHoly. I’m no deliverer, but I know
Holy when I hear it. I see the bumpof a sound cone and place my faithin the source. Some divinityspeaks. Why the bush did not charis why the beat does not break
or take a break from us. It is moremerciless than the metronomehanging on the wall, keeping the timeof days and disasters. How flamesparked in the bush is how the pump
of sound jumps into bone. The heatof plump notes does not burnup the vessel. I throb with hot light.Do not come any closer. This is holysound. Who am I to hear, be heard? [End Page 37]
Pledge
I pledge obedience to the unitedstring of beats, to rhythm, its immortality.
To the ancient metronome of dayand night, such a swift pace always
tripping us over our own feet, our mouthshungry for the fat fruit of tomorrow,
a fuller, deeper timbre than today’stuning fork ring. To routine’s
dependable bass line. To wars,their drum-tap volleys, blood
beating with the swing of a body’sthrob. Obedience, less
choice than its absence. How naturalto ease into synchronicity, fall
in line with the hefty sway and step,a march in silence, battalions
of mind and word cadence and mortality,relentless and bound to the future
we can never know as we are, butmust come to—the eventual shredding
of atoms and lifelessness for hum—heaven’s language. [End Page 38]
Wesley Rothman’s poems and criticism have appeared or are forthcoming in 32 Poems, Collagist, Crab Orchard Review, Post Road, Prairie Schooner, Vinyl, and White Review, among other publications. Recipient of a grant from the Vermont Studio Center and a Pushcart Prize nomination, he teaches writing and cultural literatures throughout Boston.
