|
THE WORD
White cotton cap, immaculate shoes
and stockings, black coat over starched dress
-- nun nurse lab
worker -- she holds the book open
in front of her, looking down
through thick-rimmed black glasses,
covertly taking stock of who takes stock of her,
spine of the holy text in her left hand,
dark right forefinger tapping a random
or necessary passage, how has she chosen it?
I would say she beats out a Jeremiad, cannot
or will not speak and so this repeated iteration
is her form of witness, save that in her insistence
she is striking with the hard tap of her fingernail,
over and over, wearing the ink away
until the pages tear, lower half of the thin pages
tatted, as if mice had been shredding
the blessings and prohibitions for a nest,
ceaseless, the revelation that drives her
so implacable she has no choice but to stand
pointing to or punishing the book or both,
she insists on revelation while tearing away at the word
that is everything to her and it does not deliver her and
therefore she must go on wounding the book
in public, her art, displayed for us, unvarying,
in the station at
34th Street
and
Sixth Avenue,
a bitter night just after the turn of the year.
|