A HAYDN SERENADE in memory of Betty and Lloyd
Mark Gordon The humpbacked and suffering human seems alternately to hold up the sky and to be oppressed by it, her back scraped like an ancient turtle. I see shadows of her deceased husband. They hover on bejeweled knick-knacks. His voice tumbles in the workings of a wall clock. She uses his scent on unwashed clothing to lull her to sleep. And on the radio this Sunday morning, a choir sings hallelujahs to a far-off god, while Haydn offers a serenade. I sense the honeycomb of this moment. It gathers the humpbacked woman into its perfect light, promises revelation for those whose spirits stay intact, although their bodies break.
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