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| Rolfe Anderson is dead. We have gathered at The English Lutheran Church to celebrate his life and commend him unto death, the pastor says. The congregation of this western church is great faced, the solid Norse of pink fieldstone carved, or chiseled black walnut log. He was not perfect, the preacher said. None of us are, but he came to this communion table where all are welcome and sins forgiven. Behind the sermon and testimonials I hear the whisper of these words: It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. The churchyard was by dry, flat wheat fields and a west wind blew. We buried this good man there and Christine took a stalk of wheat from her husband's coffin top and held it. She is strong, and the wind came up strong. We went to the farm for lunch after the church lunch-- we eat twice out here--and those men and woman with their large faces after a song of grace--Amazing Grace-- piled high their plates and ate. All tables are the tables of the Lord It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. We have sinned, the preacher said, and have fallen short of the Glory of God. We have left the houses empty, children hungry, and mothers without their men, their hands spotting, growing weak and falling. We betray our wives, speak sharply to our fathers, do injury to the houses of town by taking work away and what can be done? What can be done? Can anything be done? It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Nations divide, brother hurts brother the widows mourn, the children wail, nations rage--filling the camps. We face our guilt buried deep within our veins where the winds won't blow and would like to mine the anguish out but it's an ore that won't redeem. Our hearts beat crooked. How can we repent? And the wheat field west wind says, It doesn't matter. It truly doesn't. Grace is emptiness. We fret. Are anxious, rage against the fear of death and the vain wish to make ourselves as we are immortal. We encounter a 'Why did he die?' 'I don't know,' 'Death is a mystery.' The great silence against our keening is immense, the voices lost, no matter how high the shout. The nonwind voids and unwords all wanting. All is emptiness. The words thin and vanish. When grace is void, how sweet are the words: It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter. |
Steven Fortney
Poetry Harbor Review, Duluth Minnesota, Spring 1997
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