Pan is dead

You would ask your grandfather for the sun
your sister, faithfully dead, for sympathy and sign
to the hollow’s hidden door behind which all the brides of Pan
dance revels of delight in the sweet dark of revenge.

Clearly, you are a mother’s columbarium of memory
of memory’s ghosts monstrously remembered. Such will to memory.
Who can fight you? Who would want to?

You turn the cards with imagined force of fate and measured words
your words and wounds are the only wounds and words.
Who can deny you? Who would want to?

Your inheritance: a lesson in the grammar of trauma
of rage of red love of necessary conceits and contrivances
sharpening the edge and art of a dying heart
reborn for the gravity of correctness. Such will to right.

In fine frenzy rolling the faithfully dead and sympathizing
hide the signs to the hollow’s hidden door. They know better.
They speak another tongue, turn other cards. Pan is dead.
They delight in other revenges of memory and measure and love.

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