for Joseph Tufariello, 1909-1980
In Queens and Brooklyn churchyards
Your monuments still stand.
Maybe you were the mason
Who formed the lifted hand
Of this arresting angel
Telling of things to come,
That smooth-faced Union soldier
Beating his tilted drum,
This Mary cradling Jesus.
That shepherd with a staff—
Were you the one who carved him
Above an epitaph
Whose serifs rain has softened?
Your name was never here
To blur in wind and weather,
Wear down and disappear;
But the memorial sculptures
You hammered into grace,
Unautographed, outlive you.
A fold of cloth, a face