After the death of our son
Neither the sorrows of afternoon, waiting in the silent house,
Nor the night no sleep relieves, when memory
Repeats its prosecution.
Nor the morning's ache for dream's illusion, nor any prayers
Improvised to an unknowable god
Can extinguish the flame.
We are not as we were. Death has been our pentecost,
And our innocence consumed by these implacable
Tongues of fire.
Comfort me with stones. Quench my thirst with sand.
I offer you this scarred and guilty hand
Until others mix our ashes.
Dana Gioia's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Pentecost by Dana Gioia )
- Mother-land I weep for thee, Joseph Ogbonna
- Mother Teresa and I, SANDIP GOSWAMI
- Still Here, silenced work
- A Village Girl, Naveed Khalid
- A Song Of Harp, Naveed Khalid
- An African Woman I am... a Blessing or a.., Vivian Muciri
- You are Everywhere!, Md. Ziaul Haque
- Work: The Noun that Verbs the World!, Md. Ziaul Haque
- oh my dear, sushant jha
- Dangerous Curiosity, Md. Ziaul Haque
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