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.