Cannon or the Powder
Had it been me, she might have said aloud to no one save the river,
Might they all have made different moves; might they all have left
sympathies somewhere other than at my unpainted pine door?
Had it been me, she must have asked to no one save the wind,
Who disappeared into the distance and the myth, the mystery,
What whispers could we hear as the sun goes down over cedars?
Had it been me, she surely knew, there’d have been less silence,
fewer whispers, less of whatever it is the others held as evidence
of this failure, this dry well of what might have been a marriage.
Ah, had it been me, she knew at sunup and sundown and in between,
he’d be no less the wounded, me no less the cannon or the powder.
Author: Glen Young
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