Gyroscope Review 16-1 - Page 43

Declaration by Lynn Veach Sadler I never talk devotion, never let passion heat (except in dreams I cannot help). I don’t chew on love as if it were bones to suck its marrow out while—before—it sucks out mine. Bones is it, all right. And connective tissue. Blood, brain . . . corpus callosum, all the pieces I can name but never touch. (Yes, I tried the formalities of Church.) Even in this mean century, devotion I say, for I never knew man, will still be maid (old maid, then) when Death takes me to . . . Wherever. (Yes, I tried the formalities of Church.) I dread the taking. Death will fly me beyond doubt to That One most call God. That One, doubtless, will set me afloat in the universe as a scattering, smattering of atoms. Some simple bird will eat my heart, take my maidenhead. That, at least, I’ll like. Gyroscope Review !35