The Last Moments of Heaven
If I had known this would happen, and
if I could have guessed (though how could I) what
my gentleness would bring, I would have been rough
and insistent, but not wanting to scare you, I caged the beast
and honeyed my tongue, thinking that Fate, in its
evenness, had finally run out of torments, and now the hour
had arrived that it may mete out joy, that you would come.
As I walked home the sun was setting in all its colors, round
dinner time, and though I had a deep foreboding, I nonetheless smiled at
the thought you may be waiting for me, that the last
few days silence had been remnants of an old life, sullen as it slouches
into oblivion. I quickened my pace, almost singing as I skipped towards
my home, hoping for joyous news, my own Star of Bethlehem
shining in the parking-lot; you casually (with flowers?) waiting there to
answer in person, and I ignored the pangs of foreknowing what would be
awaiting me upon my arrival, what disastrous new chapter was about to be born.
Golden Shovel poem, borrowing the lines “And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?” from W. B. Yeats’ Second Coming.