|Oct/Nov 2014 Poetry Special Feature|
Tapestry artwork by Susan Klebanoff
A Welsh Funeral, Betwys-y-Coed
After David Cox, circa 1847
A methodology towards a painted end:
lives in a landscape form a landscape,
impartial and of no distinctive self. No
tale, no legend, no bad reputation.
No hair, no flesh, no silk.
From cloth, to leaves, to stone;
from dissolution to the vanishing point,
as all these footsteps go.
You can ask me anything.
I promise that my answers
will be fair, impartial,
unencumbered with the truth.
There's nothing big at stake,
except maybe my reputation,
and that was my invention
anyway. I started all those stories,
and last I looked, there's not
a single word that might be true.
My best man told them
at my wedding; he can tell them
at my funeral—just too late, because
I'll hear the gates of heaven closing
at my back, before the devil hears
my footsteps running up the golden stairs.