The Ikons

Hard, heavy, slow, dark, Or so I find them, the hands of Te Whaea Teaching me to die. Some lightness will come later When the heart has lost its unjust hope For special treatment. Today I go with a bucket Over the paddocks of young grass, So delicate like fronds of maidenhair, Looking for mushrooms. I find twelve of them, Most of them little, and some eaten by maggots, But they’ll do to add to the soup. It’s a long time now Since the great ikons fell down, God, Mary, home, sex, poetry, Whatever one uses as a bridge To cross the river that only has one beach, And even one’s name is a way of saying — ‘This gap inside a coat’ — the darkness I call God, The darkness I call Te Whaea, how can they translate The blue calm evening sky that plane tunnels through Like a little wasp, or the bucket in my hand, Into something else? I go on looking For mushrooms in the field, and the fist of longing Punches my heart, until it is too dark to see.