Possessed by departed saints
Convulsing in celibacy
Speaking and freaking for the Lord,
Like a cherub covering His throne
All that great furniture
Assembled in forced community
That holy Do-Si-Do
Prophetic tongues, groanings . . .
I doubt you, Mother Ann.
I doubt your revelation.
All you left are scattered souls,
Fading bonnets, empty meeting-halls,
In the stillness of Sabbathday.
Simple and rustic empty chairs
Awaiting the next
Found this [Dover Publications, 1963: Andrews, Edward and Faith]
among my deceased great aunt’s boxed belongings,
out in the barn,
not too far from Sabbathday lake . . .
My poem is a response to what I read therein.