Lines Toward an Illuminated Manuscript

146 Lines Toward an Illuminated Manuscript Peter B. Hyland A boy has his hands full. The sky Worries him, the sun pulsing, painful to look at. As it is painful for the eye to rest On a body which has been torn, where each wound Is a mouth, & the mouths all make a red choir To sing the body’s suffering. He has His hands full, so he nests in the shadow of a stonewall— Almost patient, almost understanding himself. What is he waiting for? Perhaps for someone to find him Because Age has brought him its first truth, That living is a form of loss, luxurious, With its many textures: the sodden coats of lambs, The knuckles of granite, the stalks & silks of the genitals . . . But he is waiting for the men to come up the road. Now they arrive. Their boots pull toward the earth & the dust rises, clouding their ankles in yellow mist. And the men are laughing, the way men laugh when they have labored At a problem too difficult. Beyond human effort. Beyond cruelty Or compassion. And having perfected their failure, They grow content. If they were to see the boy, See what he holds, their laughter would harden into a stone silence. What is he waiting for? A few more paces, & soon They will pass the row of date palms & the shuttered market. Then their features Will begin to distinguish themselves, their faces becoming particular. So that he can say this man is not the other; These men are not our own. And it is clear now. The men wear helmets, whose colors resemble The road, which itself resembles a cord pulled taut Around the aching land. They raise their guns. Why is the boy 147 Peter B. Hyland Before them? What has he thrown? It drops to the sand like a fallen fruit. Grenate, In the Old French. A pomegranate, as the goddess ate To rule the dead. The berries bursting. The juice of them Purpling the fingers. Dark seeds entering the flesh. But he is still only learning, so the boy Has forgotten to make the bomb ready—a child’s mistake, Innocent as the day is long—& at once it is in the soldier’s palm Who steps out, pulls the pin & gives it back. Blown Into a rough calligraphy, the thick gold strokes Of a brush dipped in ink that pools forever at the body’s well, The boy is translated into a thousand characters. The alphabet Of misery & fortune. Of relentless grace. And it is necessary, for boys Will be boys, as our fathers have told us. And men will go on aiming their trumpets of horror, Playing a music that is ancient & regrettable. And there are no enemies among us here where we gather On a white field to build our struggles. Are you necessary? Look what you hold in your hands. ...