In Berryville VA,
Trump signs on the lawns
of sprawling horse farms
and vineyards,
I overhear a hard hat
bragging to his buddy
on the steps
of the Abbey chapel,
“My nieces know
they’re not to touch my gun.”
I don’t nod hello.
I don’t tell them
cousin Melvin’s boy was five
when he shot and killed
his brother. I drive
to the meadow.
The leaves are down.
I can see the Abbey’s herd
of Black Angus
dotting the hillside
like nursery room wallpaper.
I stare at the engraved
river rock, no ants today
crossing his name,
his years on earth.
I am at the mercy
of my mind, a cell door
swinging shut
with a clang, and I
weep long and hard
like a rose
with its mouth blown open.
Click here to read Elisabeth Murawski on the origin of the poem.
Image by David Monje on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
Elisabeth Murawski:
My youngest son is buried in a cemetery on the grounds of Holy Cross Abbey, a Trappist monastery in Berryville, VA. On visits to his grave, I typically stopped in the chapel first. Climbing the stone steps that day, I overheard two construction workers talking about guns. I thought of my cousin and his little boys, of an unguarded hunting rifle that led to tragedy. I remember feeling angry. I don’t remember if I prayed. I drove the short distance to the cemetery, rattled by what I’d heard. I’d noticed the many Trump signs as I’d gotten further from DC; he was running a campaign stoking fear: they are coming for your guns.
The poem in the beginning started out as a long column of words down the page. A few drafts later, it had evolved into quatrains. I didn’t realize as I “fiddled” with it then that breaking it into stanzas gave the poem the white space it needed to breathe, to slow down, to be more elegiac in tone. I realize only now that I like the way it looks physically: a tower of boxes, suggesting formality, restraint.
Originally, the roses in the title appeared in the very first lines. I’d been in DC the day before and noticed them blooming everywhere in small wrought-iron-fenced gardens. Born and raised in Chicago, I wasn’t used to seeing roses in November. They were surprising as the Trump signs, as the worker with his gun expecting a child to be careful. I felt compelled to bring a rose back in at the end to symbolize grief not only for my son.
Elisabeth Murawski is the author of Heiress, Zorba’s Daughter (May Swenson Poetry Award), Moon and Mercury, and three chapbooks. Still Life with Timex won the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize. A native of Chicago, she currently lives in Alexandria, VA.
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