Afraid/Last Word
Bertha Rogers
AFRAID
I was afraid
the bear might knock
on my door,
his folded, fur hands
I must not refuse.
The bear would sigh
his nostrils open
and I would follow him,
he breathing me
into the chamber
that nightly purified my heart
I was afraid of how
the bear’s arcuate nails
would carve my face,
change its shape,
his red eyes,
his knowledge,
his kindness
he knew, knows me
I was afraid
LAST WORD
She walks through October as if it were her own,
as if she will find the rest she chooses, choosing him.
But the man with the black smile owns the month,
the man with upraised hand. Animals grovel at
Orpheus’ touch, go silent at his prodigious sound.
She falls, clutching the bed’s edge. Bury me
standing, she thinks, iced arms circling stars, knees
grappling October’s roots. Dress me in white,
and I will bride the night, strut my bones across
mountains, my hands a story, fingers speaking runes.
Lift me from your side, your clamorous chant.
His song stops. Angry, impatient as a god, he
rages all under earth. Wake, walk with me, he speaks.
