TRIPLE SESTINA

TRIPLE SESTINA

After the birth they let the father in. He, waiting in the kitchen, heard her cry And longed to be with her. The midwife came And saw him brooding by the fireplace And said: It’s alright. You’ve a lovely son. His heavy farm-boots sounded in the room. At first he could not see in the bedroom. The blinds were drawn. The sunlight filtered in Dimly. Then, in the gloom, he saw his son Nestled against the mother, his first cry Stopped by the flow of warm milk. The whole place Looked like the scene to which the Magi came. And, crossing, he too like a pilgrim came, Hushed by the holy silence of the room, By the miracle of birth. The very place Where, just before Christmas, he had entered in Gently and deeply, hearing his wife cry, Had, by September, blossomed with his son: The autumn birth, unnoticed, of a son. He next day early to the village came Riding, went to the bar, and heard himself cry: Drinks all round! Feeling his joy at last had room To manifest itself. He could fill in The formal details later: Sex and place Of birth. By afternoon he found the place And registered the birthday of his son. A clark was there to help fill the form in. Night had already fallen when he came Riding back homeward, picturing the room, The bed, his wife; hearing the baby’s cry. The room, the bed, his wife, the baby’s cry Were all as he had left them; the whole place Would always be the same: Entering the room That first time, for the first glimpse of his son, Had fixed itself forever: So he came (A fly caught in that amber moment) in.

The hospital where she was lying-in Was new and sterile. No upsetting cry Could penetrate the walls. Her husband came But she was still unconscious. In this place, So unfamiliar, shall, he thought, my son First see the world. He sat in the waiting room. At last they called him to the private room. His and the nurse’s footsteps echoed in The empty corridor. His new-born son Would be there in the mother’s arms; his cry Would break the awful silence of the place. The nurse held the door open and he came Silently to the bedside. With him came A host of old ghosts crowding through the room, Making familiar now the alien place. First came his father, stalking proudly in, Seeing the bedroom, hearing the baby’s cry, Caught in that moment with his new-born son, Seeing that son, now adult, with his son Forming another amber bead. Next came The rows of forebears, drawn there by the cry Across the centuries. (No sound-proof room Against immortal ears.) They, filing in, Stood in their serried ranks around the place, Each in the way that, in a different place, They had once stood, seeing a new-born son. Lastly, almost diffidently, came in A strange parade of phantoms. As they came Each seemed the same. And yet? Into the room First crept a school-boy, drawn there by the cry; Then a young soldier, hearing the last cry Of some dead comrade; then, taking his place, A banker; then a broker; till the room Encompassed his every age. Seeing their son Asleep now, they grew fainter and became One with the father, looked out from within.

We sat in the taxi, were not going in. Then in the dark we heard her muffled cry. We ran through the shattered silence. As we came Into the unlit hall we knew the place Had suddenly grown different. O my son! Our mother stood there in the empty room. And that was it. She, in the empty room, Was not alone. We sensed it, coming in. She stood there, crying, whispering: My son! My daughter! Holy Mary, hear my cry! Mother of God, please help us. And the place, Our home till then, was strange. And so we came Into the bedroom, and our childhood came Silently with us into that silent room, Not knowing it would never leave the place But, looking upon the bed, would die therein. Seeing him dead I did not even cry: I am his son, his son, his son, his son And he is dead forever: Was a son Hushed and respectful when the doctor came And told us what we knew. I did not cry, But stood dry-eyed within my father’s room, Wondering what to do, how to fill in The days, now the world had ended in this place. Daddy, you were a world. This is no place To end a journey. Once you were a son, Born to a farming father, grew up in A rural Scotland, left for the city, came Through a bloody war, to end up in this room Alone, no father to hear your last cry. Daddy, I am alone. To you I cry Knowing you cannot hear. I know this place Was once your home, is now an empty room. The universe is empty. If your son Cried like a baby, would you come. I came; My unborn son still struggling within.

Trapped in my loins I hear my forebears cry: Each of us came, thinking this was the place ... You and your son shall die in an empty room.