Uriah

For those of you who skipped Sunday School the week they were telling the story of King David's adultery with Bathsheba...Uriah was her husband, oblivious to the King's desire for his wife, who was sent on a suicide mission so the King could have his wife. The origin of this poem, emotionally, is complicated. The subtext of this poem is it was written when he found out his muse Brigit was yet married (she had neglected to mention that little fact until after the affair had begun).

Uriah

and for all these things, they are now but dust.
crushed beneath the heels of the celestial waterclock
that grinds us down with tears and tempestuous synapses.
seizing our days in slivers of life. the knife has no handle,
and thus we must rip our own flesh to fight the war
we promenade into like dancers in a royal spectacle.
mirrors bend the light and we might see something
of ourselves in the eyes of strangers called to kiss
the edge of our self-immolations...
but in the end, no one stands alone, or they fall.
and the walls of Jericho still mock the memory
of the stonemason.
for, in words, there are no truth.
but in our hearts.
in our hearts,
those cold orbs we cover over in varnished iconography
we flee to when we cannot deal with hope.
cold and kinetic like a snowball fight
on a dark December night.
white out.
right out of a prophecy
written with fingers still wet.
night sweat.
and a game of liar's poker
played to lose.
arrayed to lose
like Uriah at the wall.
left to die
for a purpose
he did not comprehend,
for he did not know
the currency of history.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.