Wednesday, March 10, 2010

ELEGY 111


Born when the hearse

was drawn by powerful black horses

one hundred and three years gone.

In one small room of himself

sitting for hours, weeks months.

Years of sleeping, or sitting still,

seeming to study the empty air

unmoving in his chair

staring into the distance

serious face expecting nothing.

Nothing changing. Not even the chair.

Not since mustard was the favored color

of naugahyde lazy boys.

He died in winter, blind buds waking

in wet beds too soon.

I remember the warm silver drizzle

of rain, the usual barrenness of trees

shining forth in a cloud of strangeness,

pussy willows bursting from branches

like sparked flint torches burning holes

in January’s ashen sky. I remember

the river was high. The quiet glow,

how even the water looked solemn,

tide slow as a curtain closing.

When I asked, was he meditating,

was he perfecting stillness,

he shrugged, hopeless gesture

of emptiness, “ No “ he said, “I can’t stop

my mind wandering. I can’t stop

worrying. Its not peaceful in here”.

I used to think the only bead left to worry was

who shall deliver him from his life

buried, yet surviving in the dry tear of memory,

a rise in the Dow Jones feeding him like scripture.

The winter I was fifty, I sat with him, waiting,

by his bedside watching

the full moon of his mouth, the open“O

full and empty, one last syllable drawn in

circle of time gasping, shuddering

wound and portal,

as if the death-tide rising in his throat

were lover, as if all the waters in him

were reaching up for sky

eyes fallen inward, aliveness imploded

as a star burst inside him so all I could see

was light, the eye of his heart opened outward

to the world

a man blind all his life, lost and bewildered,

now lit up and burning like a torch

a light in the wilderness

we all saw it. We all felt the sweetness pouring from him

the softness, kindness,

the hard flint of his life surrendered

spark of absolution

touching us all

burning the knotted cord

of hurt between us

nothing left but the body’s butter lamp glow

spilling its light in darkness,

one being, one body

touching and being,

released and releasing

all that remains

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