BRINGING YOU BY THE BOAT THROUGH OUR SUMMER OF DISTINGUISHED LAUGHTER
I.
Because the poem says so
I cannot choose my death, I will
have to wait for it to happen
on its own volition. I am resigned
to my fate: I cannot argue
what has been already written
for me. I will live; I will write;
I will die when death is due.
II.
On occasion, your memory
startles me, having quickly
diffused, unrecognisable.
I forget your forms, fingers,
forgivings, and so on– sick
with forgetting, I go even
further. And then! Like the
glint of a month: a sound
that resembles yours:
launching me into shock
that holds me and holds
me still and holds me
until I can no longer
think to swim.
III.
I had asked you to write to me and in waiting for your response
I discovered many rituals: washing dishes, ironing clothes,
changing the sheets over and over, watering the plants while
busy in song, mending the house, whatever it takes to keep
this small body in action, moving, mindless, pause this small
heart, ignore its demands, more dishes to wash, more clothes,
more plants, more birds outside my window to watch, who
were you at all, more bottles to fill, cats to feed, will you ever
return, tables to dust, walks to take, hair to brush, I am so
much in love, will you ever know what words to say, the kitchen,
the garden, the wings and lungs, the shoes, the spoons, so on.
IV.
You do not write back.
But at least now
the house is clean
and the sun is set
and this small body
with its small heart
can think to rest.
V.
Over the water
I carry a little flame
of sound: ours.
Although I do not wish to live,
I am glad to
while it flickers, and although
I am startled,
I am glad to remember
whatever I can
of whatever it was
that kept us.