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Knoxville: Summer, 2003
by Judy Loest
Here through the open gates at twilight
Among the old oaks and stone angels
In this pre-Civil War cemetery,
James Agee’s father rises, a ghost
In a family of ghosts now gathering
Like moonflowers for the grieving child
Who bids them come to surround him
Once again in love, his child’s body still
Held in thrall by their quiet voices,
By the sounds of the damp blue evening.
The scene never changes, the four adults
And the child never age, the same quilt
Spread upon the damp grass, locusts singing,
Morning glories closing in the coming dark.
We see it clearly every time, this passage
From the most primal place in the heart
Which outlasts sorrow and the dark graves
Of time, a scene which springs up unbidden,
Trailing in its wake our own dead
Who left without telling us who we are.
November 24, 2004 • Vol. 14, No. 48
© 2004 Metro Pulse
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