“…visitors offering their condolences, thinking to comfort me, said “Life goes on.” What nonsense, I thought, of course it doesn’t. It’s death that goes on; Ian is dead now and will be dead tomorrow and next year and forever. There’s no end to that. But perhaps there will be an end to the sorrow of it. Sorrow has rushed over the world like the waters of the Deluge, and it will take time to recede. But already, there are small islands of- hope? Happiness? Something like them, at any rate. I like the picture of you standing upon your chair to catch a glimpse of the sun, averting your eyes from the mounds of rubble.” ~Amelia Maugery (The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows)
Monthly Archives: December 2010
wondered, does forever start
in the accidental factors thrown in along the way,
and if we got caught up in the leaves, would they break under our weight
or could we
hang pressed against them, fingers wrapped around their brown edges and
sun shining through them, all of us aligned-
drying together, forms crumbling and fading away,
crenulated edges breaking off
until you and i are skeletons made of cooling bones and
the leaves are skeletons made of dry veins
and one day we will all fall and the man with the square jaw and soft voice will
come along and try to
rake us up under the same skies,
but you and i will blow away.
the roaming becomes tiresome after a while;
secret files full of dusty snapshots piling up in the hidden drawers
deep inside my chest.
your warm hands have been prying deep under rusty trapdoors and
snapping all the hinges off, one by one,
managing to hold on to a shallow ledge every time my heart turns over and constricts.
did you know sometimes
i stand still and stare when you aren’t watching me,
trying to decide what is real, and who is what,
and if i close my eyes, what is left?
there was that terrifying day, the one where my face was transparent and bloodless
and there was nothing but falling,
falling and your hands.
from that day there has been a rhythm,
a quiet pattern of a gentle pounding in my ear, the sound of what’s now mine
ricocheting off the walls inside my shell and singing
as the aching organ pumping my blood through my body (despite
all my previous, dull objections)
tries to echo and mirror the beat.