Final Jeopardy

 

What’s distracting her? So I thought

Watching the game as she won it again

And again. Predator of the green

Resplendent quetzal? The Catholic origin

Of pretzel? Boiling River of Peru? All this

She knew, her answers right, but something

Wrong. For through all the pleasant play—

The dread cane toad, the caveprints of

Chauvet, the phantom road—she stood

Unmoved, the others’ jokes evoking just

A hint of smile, beneath dark placid eyes

Da Vinci might have drawn. Her only

Stab at gaiety, a yellow scarf circling her

Throat, though seeming more a clerical

Medieval cloak, enfolding her in solitude.

Yet her air, sturdy: in her profound

Courtesy, she’d asked them, unknown

To us, how long these rounds could

Last, in case by then her own deadline

Might have passed. Meanwhile

The quiz board flashed its merry

Inquisition—who wrote “Masque of

The Red Death”? Which body organ

Harbors “crypts”?—her stance,

Unmoved by right or wrong, as if

Sometimes the task is not to know

The answer, but to be

The question no one asks.

Not till after—since she

Belonged to those loved her,

Not who watched—did we learn

Of the cancer. Then sadness

Fell, rebellion of the heart:

She was so smart!

 

Still, it’s a game. The players

Come, the players go, ghosts

Flickering that flash across

The screen. But now—no!—not

The host?—at the podium, Master

Of Ceremonies, the one

Meant to stand and stay

While others pass?

 

In some dark wood, designing

Scientists devised a phantom

Road, raucous with traffic

Noise, a trial, a test: which

Creature, craving peace, would

Fly? From its willow nest

Beside the riverbed, feeling

The sky constrict around its

Melody—“Sweet, sweet!”—

This bird spread wings for

An unknown shore.

 

What is the yellow warbler?