September Elegy
Michael P. McManus
- For J.I. on the scattering of his ashes
While the Christ-child played taps on a muddy bank,
a Blue Heron stood motionless in the reeds.
It could be called a play of genius on either part,
which, through moments gone, held sway over the other.
And the communion was just—
The sky filled with sunlight, blazed with cicada sound.
Something surfaced in the bayou and then was gone,
like a birthmark removed, or starvation ended.
Think of it as jealousy before the myth
was ever a myth, a sapphire blackened
by the dusty rubble left by thieves.
Nothing remains, no one to bless or blame.
The music comes and we listen, we listen.
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Michael P. McManus is a