i
While you were living, I could never breathe
life into you to put you on a page;
although, God knows, I tried enough to leave
your imprint there, my pen became a cage
that held you in and only let you go
out like a skim of stones on water, grey
as air, in air a trace above the flow.
I could never face you in that way
you faced into each morning, blue eyes tight
around the light that flittered everything
you’d ever reached for as your birthright
in this world. You eluded me, to sing
and teach, to write yourself: in word on words
you slipped away from me, I never heard.
ii
I am trying (again) to write of you,
your complexities, your kind simplicity.
As usual, no word of it is true
and all the images I watered, grew,
I’ve cut away and do not want to see
again, as I am trying to write of you.
Your breeding blooded me and led me here through
tenements and farmers fled from Germany,
(I wonder if one word of it is true)
or if, perhaps, you never really knew
yourself, but always knew enough of me
that I would try (again) to write of you
whose hands I have, whose eyes, the same night-blue,
don’t mirror yours, won’t hold the memories,
so, probably, no word of this is true.
To die, just once, is all you have to do,
you said, and understood how it would be:
I am trying (again) to write of you,
as usual, no word of it is true.
iii
Goodbye, I said, I’ll see you tomorrow; the last words
I spoke to you that night, not quite closing the door, leaving a gap
as small as your voice had become, as small as a child.
I looked back. Head lowered, eyes already somewhere else
in the chair beside your bed you tried to rest, your radio silent
for once. Your curtains were half-drawn against the light
that snagged in the branches of the tree outside your window;
the sky glazed over, grey subsumed into the black.
The sky glazed over, grey subsumed into the black
that snagged in the branches of the tree outside your window;
for once, your curtains were half-drawn against the light.
In the chair beside your bed you tried to rest, your radio silent.
I looked back, head lowered, eyes already somewhere else:
as small as your voice had become, as small as a child
I spoke to you that night, not quite closing the door, leaving a gap,
Goodbye, I said, I’ll see you tomorrow, the last words.