Talking With the Dead
Buy Issue for $25 at JHUP- Talking With the Dead
Morning. Ocean rain and fog. I wake uneasy in the Gold Beach motel, Scratching in my brain to set the day right And here it is, the calendar reminding me That on this day a year ago you died.
On this day a year ago you packed Your gentle manner and disarming clarity, Your kindness and bawdy humor, Your high-pitched laugh and pixie face And crossed over, leaving the phone dead,
The crowded dining room hollow, The reservoir iced over, the lovers ashen, The tennis courts deserted. Ever since, I’ve wanted to get even With Death. I’ve wanted to bring you back
Where you belong—a purely selfish act If I could pull it off. I’ve wanted to join you, Loving your company, happy where you were. Your exit knocked me off my stride, A rhythm I can’t seem to find again.
The left behind can’t help but make it all about them. We wade in shadows for answers we can’t have, And though we never left a word unsaid, I’d give a world to sit with you and talk Just as we used to do. Now it’s in my head, [End Page 62]
The work of keeping you alive. Just as you Constantly renewed yourself (and have again, for all we know), I keep your lesson close: Be open, honest, true; be rigorous and loyal, But most of all be joyful in everything I say and do.
The world is shining even as we lose The people, things, and scenes we cherish most. Walking on the beach, my son whose middle name Is yours collects stones and makes up stories for each one. A life can be a model. I learned that much from you. [End Page 63]
