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KUNDRY / Patricia Wilcox Amfortas, we Uve by our wounds. Healing? Sanctification? Denial for us. Pure fools—boy and maid—ride forth in the green spattered with Ught and blood, Herzeleide within the mind's monastery and proof against the conquered world of strategies and charms we reason and suffer by. Knowing The Way better than its apostle knights, conning twinned maps, lands and stars, towards a goal inclusive of the GraU, towards a rite older than wrong itself, we swing between, turn endlessly; Klingsor and Parsifal hypothesize the poles. Try as we might to reify those absences and raise these less than ghosts to more than theater, adult nursery tale, we are defeated. I should not have laughed. You should not have loved. 76 · The Missouri Review ...


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