Death As Specimen

Cindy, why do you think so often of Death?

Because it circles
like a pack of wolves,
and paces me like
a famished tiger.

I must know how it thinks
if I’m to reason with it.
I will know it by its
wooden footfall.
I will recognize its
granite skin and wicked
laughter.

I will learn all of its names
and the names of its children.
I’ll become familiar with its
scent in mere traces.

One day, if I’ve studied well,
I will have that thing’s belly—
bleeding from my victorious jaws—
foe or friend, vanquished all the same.

--Cindy St. Onge
March 12, 2006

Sanctuary in the Known World

If you must talk,
speak only of God here.
Save your idle, neurotic chatter
for the city and its pavement.

Here is where the heart resides;
it doesn’t need a declaration,
and has no urge to prove itself.

So, let the stream babble for once.
Let the Jays tell you something.
Let this vast quietude pound
against the stony gates of
your being.

Then, let those creatures
in—wild and present and
ever gracious with stories and
lessons, with sylvan blessings.

No need for you to shout or gesture;
they know you’re here.
They know you’re here.

--Cindy St. Onge
March 12, 2006