by Sydney Lea

    When was the last lobotomy， I wonder？

    Too late for Carl at least， whom it's all but hopeless

    to think of as a whipsaw of hateful passion

    that would if it could have torn up his mother and father，

    mild as they are； but that's how old villagers say

    Carl acted before he was cut. Their smiles are rueful.

    They shake their heads， subtle. A raven²， unsubtle，

    grates from a hemlock³ as Carl steps into sight.

    His wave's familiar： he jerks and drops one palm.

    How old must he be？ He's ageless. His eyes are empty-

    the operation. He turns now： ninety degrees，

    then ninety again like a sentry⁴， the other way.

    He turns the same on each warm evening， retreating

    past the house of our mutual⁵ neighbor， who will not speak

    to Carl's father， for reasons likely beyond recall.

    It seems a shame not to edit grievances⁷.

    It's some awful stink⁸ nearby that draws the raven，

    but the rest of the world seems fixed⁹ on the morbid¹⁰ too：

    a squirrel keeps pouring spruce cones¹¹ down at me；

    a gall-blighted butternut groans¹²； the broadleafs wilt¹³；

    there's a pair of toads¹⁴ at my feet that wheels have flattened¹⁵

    side by side， like cartoon icons¹⁶ of failure；

    mosquitoes strafe me， a mammoth¹⁷ dragonfly-

    one of the season's last-attacks a moth¹

    so close to me I can hear the fatal click.

    The other day a son went off to college.

    His mother and I are quietly beside ourselves.

    We embrace each other harder now， and vow¹⁸，

    as one vows¹⁹， to love our children harder too.

    Though I hum to distract myself， the raven dives

    loud as gunfire through brush to its mess. I jump，

    but Carl doesn't seem to hear. I watch him limp

    to his family's drive-then again that sure right angle.

    Like him， our family finds a virtue²⁰ in order：

    we rise at six to eat our breakfasts together，

    then make a certain sandwich for one of the girls，

    a certain one for the other； we leave at seven；

    we gather the girls promptly²¹ at end of school.

    Carl opens his door and shuts it-click-behind him.

    It's after Labor²² Day， it's end-of-summer，

    it's another season upon us. Now he scolds me，

    that squirrel on his branch， his store of weapons gone.

    Why me， dumb brute²³？ I haven't done anything wrong，

    I've got no grievance⁶ with him-not with anyone really.

    The darkness deepens， Lord with me abide²⁴.

    The wishing star is not enough to light

    the space around me while this bit of hymn²⁵ from my schooldays

    plays， while daytime's creatures crawl to cover，

    and night ones， having no choice， confront the night.

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