with lines by Christian Wiman
It was always all aftermath, your life.
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiRiven now,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiand too close to your voice still
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiI feel. Mad
-den the missing gods tonight. There are too many, and we are
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitoo seldom
responsible. What is it that Levinas
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisaid? We are each
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiresponsible for the other. The tumor, the lack
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiof sight in the sky’s one good
eye. The dead are pages
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiunfilled with words, end-stopped instead of god
-stopped. What does it mean to have lost
someone? That you might be found? In that lacuna,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiI sat next to you the last fall
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithat a child died inside me. Silence ate
iiiiiiiiiiithe fat from the hours
until even time was skeletal. You listened,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithat I might let
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimy grief speak. In the hauntology of language:
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiilove is not a memory
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiof light falling, but the oak’s sprawl
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithat the light falls through
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiias though pain
might pass
as scripture. You sat next to me
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiias the light drew your shadow
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin the past. Now, I sit inside your silence
iiiiiiiiiiiknowing I invented it
when I wrote to you that last time
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin hospice. The only answer, my own
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiistormdying
pulse. In the intervention of midnight
rain and that midnight
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifor which there is no cure,
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiI see your voice
in the sodden fields
iiiiiiiiiiiof my mind. I want to ask if worship
is that music in the water
your body was—
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithe ash that floats there
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitrying to get back
iiiiiiiiiiito fire. Who gets to be whole
here? Or hereafter? What we will become is that date
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithat holds our deaths. Fields of loss
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiidrowned in us. I
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiwant to be anywhere
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit is not too late
now. In the hard grasses, an ache
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiibelongs to the blades
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiibeaten by rain and wind
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiuntil they are water. Though water
can’t be held. Though I knew you
iiiiiiiiiiionce, not as I remember
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiyou. It is love I must forgive
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiialong with the goldenrod
and the god my mother rented
in a hard year
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiand the wolf
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimoon and the pretense of happiness
my brother finds in the white
powder he can’t put down
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiand the arrest that follows
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiithe protest of the heart against all this wetness
iiiiiiiiiiithat is breath. That is the distance
iiiiiiiiiiibetween two hands. You gave me a poem
once. You said save yourself. It was dark
for thousands of days. No one slept
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin the silence of birds. The past went on.
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiWe lived in the long intolerable called God.