The Sin of Seven

Forgiven the sin of seven. Fathers

climb no higher than their sons.

Form emerges from the season

(gnawing the wind, toothlong

and hungry with cold). Entrance

is forbidden to failures, starting

from the end, proceeding west.

Forgiven the sin of six. Sons,

second and third, guilty of war,

not favored by day, light

the way home with razors. Their

hunger sharpens the wind. Home

is a detail in the plan, its glint

often blurred, or overlooked.

Forgiven the sin of five. Mothers

deny the guilt of numbers,

past counting. Round is the form

that shows, buttocks and thighs

and sweethearts. Evening, or night,

is for dining; the spoon their tool.

Time, and protection from harm.

Forgiven the sin of four. Daughters

create their own distance. Broken

dolls contain the germs of lament.

Mirrors are for weeping or laughter;

they double the distance, alter

the angle of offering, reverse

the polarities inherent in face.

Forgiven the sin of three. Mothers

continue the detail of home, make

a center of the dimpled belly. It holds

through echoes and entrances, the assaults

of submission. Breasts no longer for knowing,

but gnawing, nipple becoming a sun

defining roundness at last as an east.

Forgiven the sin of two. Son,

first to follow, second in chance,

divides nothing by one. His line

is the limit of fields or forests.

Mountains do not interest him. His edge

is dulled by the action of wind.

Behind him the home he never left.

Forgive the sin of one. Father.