Cassandra Langer

Sonnet to Sandy 1/9/69  Alberta Murphy

Ultimately vengeance’ cutting edge may find

No soft parts left to cleave, desecrate,

And smear into a salt-dried crusty rind

Of this unborn bloody bursting lovely fate

I know the swift moon-gutted dripping blade

That sightless, unhanded seeks its tender mark

On smooth streamed sand, couches Persian draped,

Or among knotted hanging roots that shelter the dark

Ones ravished, heralded, undone, by the thunderous need

And greed of love. Remember, Number, state,

Count out the hours, the years, and then concede.

Sift them again through fevered hands and wait,

There is no single silvered certainty;

There is no more of me than I can be.

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