Lament

A Poemby

Kenneth Kunz

2

Lament

byKenneth Kunz

Narrated by David Kirkwood

In memory of Thelma Louise Kunz

1913-1999© Kenamar Corp.

I write you this story though I know you will never read it.

No one will.

But I MUST write it.

LAMENTLAMENT

‘Dear Mother’, no-‘Dear Mom’, no -just ‘Mommy.’ There!‘Dear Mother’, No-‘Dear Mom’, No –just ‘Mommy.’

There! Lament for Mommy

LAMENT FOR MOMMY ‘Lament’ I know comes from Latin meaning: wailing, moaning, weeping.

Wellthat’s just the right word here.

LAMENTLAMENT

You had a beautiful ceremony;

People said really nice things, all true.

The cleric, priest or preacher, minister, whatever they’re called now,

gave a really nice service and spoke as if he had known you long.

But he did mispronounce your name

—twice!

I think he penciled it in the margins of his little bookof ‘23 most beloved funeral services.’

LAMENTLAMENT

You would have been proud of me.

Stiff upper lip and all that.

Your little trooper!

But I did very little breathing to stifle sounds not well controlled,

And I did the dabbing very discretely, though I could hardly see.

I wanted to say great things like the others at the microphone,

But the risk of breaking down was just too great for my fragile state.

LAMENTLAMENT

So here we are –alone- and I can bare my soul.

I’ll write it down but show it not.

I’ll slide it in the hole just before they place you in.

It will turn to fumes and pervade your wooden bed.

You’ll feel my love forever and a day.

Just this one last prank!

I know you’ll forgive me; --you can’t scold me now.

Well, - after the service and everyone had gone,

I scuttered under the shroud around your coffin and hid.

Yes I scuttered, like Peter Rabbit under the gate.

So loved you reading me that story!

LAMENTLAMENT

There I waited and waited until it got dark,

but it never got really dark.

So finally, I peeped out.

No Mr. McGregor, no anybody.

I saw a small writing table, gilded guest-book, an ornate inkwell, a plumed pen with huge white feather,--nice flourish.

And a burning candleon a silver candlestick,just a nubbin now.

LAMENTLAMENT

Anyway, I opened the book to the last page—a blank— and carefully tore it out and put the book aside.

So I dipped the pen and thus I write. “Lament for Mommy.”

It grabs me, WHAM! I feel a pang. My mommy’s gone, Gone GONE. Whoa, this prank has gone awry.

I start to write again, feeling all alone, a little scared.

Dam.., -er Darn it,

A drop hits the page and smeared a word.

I just remembered how you held my hand to form the letters.

I sniff and start again.

LAMENTLAMENT

“Mommy, I love you and really miss you already.”

I craft the words within my mind, jot them down with feathered pen;

and fix them to the paper with blurry stare.

More drops.

Can’t repair my marks,

The papers sogged;

Rub turns paper to pulp.

Damn—yes DAMN!

LAMENTLAMENT

I pound the table with defiant fist,

but find it’s just a rubber stamp for some ink jolted from the little well.

The nib is bent and will but scratch.

But still I write:I try to rhyme.

The words are forced, the meter bad.

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!

Hey, that rhymes, is alliteration, and is repeated for emphasis!

How about that, Mommy!

LAMENTLAMENT

Whoa! I just caught a whiff, not a scent, just a dim memory, but I felt it yet.

A memory before words, or even sight.

The primordial mammal bond I had with you.

I only felt it once since, at milking time,

with Bessie and her calf at udder.

How I longed to be that calf.

Secure, nurtured, and loved by mother.

LAMENTLAMENT

You were my loving cloth-mom with full breasts.

Pity the poor chimp babies with the wire-moms;

or the frogs and such with no moms at all.

I feel the heat start to rise within me.

I’m like the table with one leg too short, tilting one way, then back.

“Little Wobbly”, they called me.

You tried to help, by scolding them,

“Stones can only kill, but words do really, really hurt!”

LAMENTLAMENT

I came in here somewhat cold, but now I’m getting hot.

“I love you Mommy.”

Whoops, I wrote that first.

I wish to think, but now cannot.

My breath is short, I only pant.

My eyes still somewhat see.

I turn the blinkers up to max.

My scull’s a cauldron, and my brain’s a-bubble –a witch’s brew.

LAMENTLAMENT

The pendulum swings within my pit, chopping innards for some rancid giblet stew. My legs have turned to piles; I cannot feel my toes.

The poles are broke; the wires are down in this dreadful storm.

I hold my sagging face in sore and shaking hands.

Oh! Woe is me!

I’ve torn the book,

spilt the ink,

broke the pen,

scratched the table,

AND peed the floor!

LAMENTLAMENT

But they’ll never know what happened here,

Lest Poe’s Black Cat screams me out.

I hid this scrap within my soggy pants.

Next morn, they’ll not find me here;

I’ll ride within the casket-cart, masked by the linen shroud.

I must shake this mood.

I stare into the flame.

The image burned into my brain.

I close my eyes, the light’s still there, but the flicker’s not.

LAMENTLAMENT

I think of my mother lying there.

I’d trade her place, ’ere I could.

But here she’d be, her dead son to grieve.

Wish upon her that, I could not, could not!

I look around the chapel room.

Mary, looking to her Son upon his post.

How dreadfully she must suffer.

She would take his place, as any mother would.

But He would nay her and face the fate he should.

LAMENTLAMENT

God! Mary! Jesus!,son! mother! me!

Mommy! –Death! Unholy death!

Beelzebub! Baskervilles! Betelgeuse!

My head’s a-swirl.

Where’s my flock of friendly sparrows to exhort me now?

Oh! Woe is me!

I stare back into the flame.

The candle’s spent.

Just a puddle of melted wax within a fragile rim.

I watch with bated breath to spare the fragile life.

The dam is breached!

LAMENTLAMENT

Clear lava dribbles down the silver stick and sets, slowly turning back to milky white.

The slight black wick barely stands,

The flame half its former size.

It teeters; it falls.

The light is gone. Gone--forever. DEAD- FOR-EVER!

Oh! Woe is me!

The after-image of the flame slowly fades to black, and comes to view my mother lying there.

I see her clearly through the planks. FATE, -thou cruel, cruel beast!

Alas, my mother cannot else but die.

And I, I cannot else but cry.

LAMENTLAMENT

I’ve now wobbled way too far

to even say at least:

“Mommy Dear, Good-Bye.”

20

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