On the Night of His Last Falling

On the Night of His Last Falling

Posted on:Feb 22 2013
By:Flint McGlaughlin

[Editor’s Note: The poet J. V. Cunningham once observed that “…gloss demands / A gloss annexed / Till busy hands / Blot out the text…” I do not wish to add gloss to the text below. I will only mention that if you find yourself unable to understand (as I did), it may be helpful to heed the advice in the last block of verse and judge it with your body, not your mind. The work is started here below, but because of its very particular formatting, we recommend that you download the PDF version. -PC]

I cannot reach him…I can see him, faintly, through the haze of darkness, across the gaping chasm. He is poised on the ledge, a tiny shadow, thrusting upward from the stone, back arched, head high, a matador. My God! What is he seeing? “Son! Son!” I have called to him again and again. He does not answer. I am not sure he hears. The wind is fierce, treacherous, blasting its will through the granite. “My Son!” There is no reply. What is he thinking?

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