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The Ode on a Grecian Urn
Is worth any number of old ladies. A grandmother hung from a cliff like a tense moment in an action movie and the Ode, speaking itself with its hand on one heart, steadfastly refused to save her, in fact it did that thing where it ground each finger out with a motorcycle boot and then ate its cigarette for emphasis, whooping; some old-ass bitch was in pussy church when the Öde, now spelling itself with an umlaut, swung its urn at the back of her head, really clocking her; till the violets in her church hat grew from the floor and won a third-place prize for consciousness; the Ode is pushing nanas off bridges, detonating them with dynamite, tying them to railroad tracks with squeaky young rope, pouring big glugs into them out of the skull-and-crossbones bottle, the Ode is checking its pocketwatch, which points always to death-to-old-ladies o’clock, it is shrieking ugh you’re like one hundred and your breath smells exactly like horse medicine ho, the Ode is blasting holes in them, is laying them out in the potpourri aisle, is stabbing them with those icicles they always said were dangerous, the Ode means ill to all of them, the Ode is worth any number ... and the worst is I believe it. The worst is I will become one, without having written anything like the Ode on a Grecian Urn, and sit in long rows along with my kind, till there the Ode comes striding toward me, my necessary death at the ready, my pulse like black grapes at its fingertips, saying, “Fear not, it will be fast, the forgetting of great poems will fly through you in bullets”; beauty is truth, and truth ... but already I am losing it, all I know is that the world is falling away, and you won’t believe what it is wearing, the ridiculous pantsuit of me, a old lady, crumpled hopelessly at the crotch, a flower valiant in its little butthole — all the vital syllables are being erased — its space-age fabric now seen for what it is: an embarrassment, my name is turning into Edna, Myrtle, Dorcas, my descendants find my peppermints disgusting, the urn is approaching to scatter me over a landscape that is heaven on earth, and in the feet of the poem I am running — in mad pursuit, and struggle to escape — chased as if I am worth one million, Pearl, Opal, Ruby, Coral, until I am caught by the feeble arm, and because it is true I am telling the Ode: you stood in me like a spine, put poppies behind my eyes, just the fact of you, that he took one raw spring to set you down instead of going out to tip heifers, tweak noses, or sexually harass huge curvy vases, you were for me too, though they would trade me in all my Beulahs, have lined me up to enter that land in my turn, you let me memorize your most satiny parts and repeat them in hospital waiting rooms, first to myself, and then almost out loud, mine, mine, the world’s, all mine, something to say in the face of tall sickness as I quietly try to unwrap hard candies, as I tug down tissues from my sleeve, because it is true I am telling you, Ode, that I had a throat and you boiled in it, and the Ode is murmuring almost gently, “But do you like my ending? Some people don’t like my ending,” I don’t, I never did, I thought it was so overwrought, though now that I’m here myself why not if it has to be this way then better put a bright red cough on all that white