To Future Eleanors

How will you

cut off from Zions,

fall on your knees among the lions?

What if you

cut off from hymns

confound worksong with anthem

Cut off from Scripture

find sense suspect

and worship

incoherence—

distrust the laces

and adore the tangled thread?

What of you

without a holy thing,

but every sacrilege

of the sacrileged class?

Godsave your unsuspecting fists

grasping the fiery ladder bare,

your forehead

fighting a wordless solitaire.

Without some future language

how can I ask you?

If I could ask in Euphorese,

Moonskrit, in Ecolow....

What will you do with

Grandma’s savings —

those relics atticked

in your head

of effort, vision?

On pain of death, scratch pictures

in the dust

as she did —

I fear my after-thirst.

Notes:

This poem is part of a special section of Poetry magazine's May issue

Source: Poetry (May 2010)