Authority Lost

I didn’t want to write down

my morning dream of fumbled

authority, of being unable

to run a set of theatre auditions

despite enthusiastic attendance,

unable to find the scenes

in the various editions of scripts

laid before me, one a graphic

novel version, one an ancient

dusty tome. I kept wiping off

the pages with my sleeve. But

here it is, the dream inserted

in the poem, as Satan tried

to insert a dream in Eve’s ear,

squat as a toad as she slept,

in PARADISE LOST, before Gabriel

threatened him and sent him out.

But he would return, as we all

know, back in a serpent shape.

Thus I doubt my own authority,

my own ability to lead, though

chosen to lead, dubious thoughts

entwined along the vines of hope

and confidence and trust, wound

even around the sturdy trunk

of my upbringing in quiet faith.

Everything combines this morning

to wake me up, or keep me awake,

as the night was long and wakeful.

And yesterday my father was old,

as he will always be old now, older

and failing, his life slipping

through the sieve of his past,

his wife, my mother, already mostly

gone, she who has always taken care

of him, unable even to tend herself.

I visit and fail to hold them together,

to solve their broken lives. He must

do it himself, he tells me, and I see,

though he cannot do it himself

and must come to see that, too.

Thus I respect his authority, and thus

the dream, the poem, the reading,

the visit, all entwine and entangle,

and the night-blooming flowers

open fragrant and white, and close

again at dawn, while day flowers

struggle up from cold, dark earth.

— Babs