A COMFORTABLE BOWL TO DIE IN

Precarious rowings among the lilies with logs
And sudden shallows under your prow are what
Win water lilies for eager children. The lilies
Go into a bowl of water on the kitchen table.

As the morning and then the afternoon progress,
The flowers close, the petals discolor. Removed
From the place where they were nurtured and flourished,
They become secretive, and their secrets change.

You stare at the most recent capture, which is still
Open. "Tell me," you say, "before you iris
Shut like your sisters. What exactly are you hiding?
If you tell no one, then your secret will be safe,

But there will also be no one to tell tomorrow
Of your today. What is the center of you,
And why does it seem so important -- and not just
To you, but to me, who can't find it, and never

Saw it, and thinks it might be religion? A secret
so important that it might even silence
the children arguing in the other room?" The slowly
Shutting white petals and the yellow tendrils

They surround, all waving in at the absence
Of a central citadel, look you right in the eye
And say, "If we told you, that would ruin it."
"It's ruined anyway," you say; "you're dying."

"We don't seek answers for ourselves," sigh
The petals, "and we don't exist to provide you
With answers. Say, shouldn't there be something
Right between your eyes? Other than the bridge

Of your nose, we mean. We don't know what
On earth it might be, but you seem incomplete
Without it. Amazing! We, too, can tell the world
What it ought to be, and rage at it when it won't

Comply. Thank you for bringing us flowers religion."
"Just for that," you say, "I'll kill more of you tomorrow.
One by one you will perish in the torture-bowl
Until one of you tells me the answer."