The list of who I’d die
For is very short:
My wife, my kids,
And my three dogs,
Except I just lost
One and was never
Never close to death.
Suddenly, she in just
One day collapsed
And I stood helplessly.
No mountain lion
To face nor speeding car,
No insane madman
Nor falling star.
She curled up inside
Around her wound
And died, no plea
For sympathy, no doubt
Or questioning. It was
As though I’d let her leash
Slip through my fingers.
Is he mad now?
We’ve seen him talking
To his one remaining dog;
Then watching to see
If she misses Ginger
As much as he;
Which anyone should know,
And abandoning his books
For tablets without print
Or sense then scribbling
In them. The rain
Is falling again
So he makes tears
Of it and listens
Intently with pen poised
As though there were
Someone out there
For him in the darkness
With dank wet fur
Ready to lead him away
Whenever he would choose.
If one weeps, well that
Is what one does. There is no
Rule of right and wrong,
Perhaps a song brings
Back a girl once longed for
Or a fragrance in the air
Or a time of delight suddenly lost;
So for protection
We don’t remember
Much more than the feeling,
Stealing up against our will
In splashes of tears;
Which we seek to hide
For their presence
Is shameful and must be
Concealed at all costs –
If we’re a man,
And if not well
There is no hope for that either,
Each weeping in his own way
Softly, quietly, gravely, still
Maybe if we haven’t degenerated as
H. G. Wells foretold, we might build
Ships or worlds to escape the collision
With Andromeda, and maybe Susan
Won’t actually die though she can only
Be on her feet for short periods of time
Which casts a sufficient pall,
But reduced as it is to prose
As it invariably is and that
Not quite what I meant . . ..
Sure we can talk in prose.
Most of us do, but when something
I wrote quite right is stripped
Like a triptych of its illumination,
I may lean forward and look out
My study window to where Ginger
Used to spend her time, a little time
As it happens, nine years and five
Months. Sage and Duffy search about,
Wanting to turn her into prose,
But she will never be again.
Andromeda is rushing toward us
Like an assassin’s bullet
And will wrench into fragments
Any thoughts of how it used to be
On the roller coaster, say, by the sea
Looking out at waves coming in
At only a fraction of the speed.
We have been warned by
Pestering meteors, comets,
And our pock-marked moon,
But looking out we can’t see
Them with our naked eye,
The pathological damage,
And so believe in a peace
That in our time shall prevail
A wonderful mystical state,
And though it has never been
It is our belief – even though
Someone this very instant is planting
An IED for our unsuspecting feet:
And will spin them off in flashes of light.
I knew her rough direction
And could see the tracks
Although a train hasn’t been
This way in years. There was
A rose-petalness to her lips
As I kissed her good-bye,
And her natural softness
Which coupled with her
Adamantine resolve buckled
Her, sending her bloodied
To the ground. I found
Her getting into bed, furious
At her traitorous cramping-legs
Though not able to recall them
The next day and seeing no
Reason to stay as though
She were like me who puts
Words to these wrenching things,
Seeing the colors change and fade
Here as at the river, hemming
In everything I try to remember.
In the past I never counted cards
But I did have a feel for when
A certain card would appear.
My card-counting partner
Would nod his head in approval,
But I’m retired now
And no longer play --
Until recently. My hand
Is spread out before me.
I’m pretty sure my partner
Isn’t counting her’s
And may not even care
That we are losing.
She seems impatient
To be done, and I can’t
Blame her. I look again
At my cards and hope, but
There is nothing I can play
To change a thing.
She smiles contentedly
As I send up a silent prayer.
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