Darrah sits with the scale in her hand
To measure the earth.—
To measure the sand.
Darrah is wooed by the preacher
Whose claims are of a certain sort
But Darrah belongs to the preacher whom wields her lips
To drink of her tongue and honeywine.
How the preacher drinks Darrah’s bosom
To spit it back out…
Because Darrah’s hidden parcel
Belongs more to the pleasant reverie
Told by a fireside
Than in any serious, fatal matter.
Darrah cannot sway the heart.
She cannot cause the doubtful to stop erring.
She, rather, is a swathed betrothed
Whom when asked a question she can answer.
But if Christ can not be seen in the stars
What is her answer to the one blinded
Whose ears see half of all words?
Let the preacher preach kindness
And love.
Let Darrah’s love be told by the fireside
So the little ones do not hear and stumble
When an answer is given.
Who, though, understands the answer?
Certainly not the ones asking questions
They need not answers to.
Not yet. Though this preacher corroborated Darrah’s
Lips, which she whispered into my ear,
Let the sucklings drink milk from Darrah’s bosom
And not the raw rootvegetable
With its skin.
B. K. Neifert 