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The room is loud with them,
each mother’s personal obsession:
her chosen monotheism
and to each his acolyte, to each her priestess.
They dominate us all,
this pantheon of tiny tyrants
alive and radiant
with their imperious self-obsession.
And there,
within time’s grace a god, went I:
I too divested
reluctantly, with age, my creed
of absolute, exquisite self-importance.
The world leaked in,
my place within it straitened.
And will my own child
set the seal
on this diminuendo?
Will I, condemned to adulthood,
be jealous of the life that I’ve created?
I contemplate my cherished atheism,
contemplate
the quiet suicide we grow to long for.
Deplorable banality, deplorable desire.
Incredible that it is so:
that all these women are, so gracefully
above the flood
still breathing, loving.
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Death of a Pragmatist
