Song of Dave

This is the point of diminishing returns,
where the poignant insights no longer soothe but sting,
where the profundity of words simply withers,
where a howl of sorrow is no longer heard.

Might as well finish it here,
while there’s still a chorus to sing
and a lone cricket to carry the song.

The song, you see, no longer contains words
     or a tune.
It’s somewhere between here and eternity.
It’s only seen on the lines of my face.

This is the song of Dave:
The last breath of a man who lived,
of a son and a brother
     who died.

Maybe someone later will carry the song,
but for now only my face will bear it,
     with some help from my cricket friend.
We together will carry it up the hills of Golgotha.

The lines of my face,
     deep furrows of pain,
          will blaze the path.

5/27/11

Going to that Place

There’s no way of going to that place,
of following him through those dark corridors.
You have to just let go, and try to catch one last glimpse
   that inevitably comes in the form of a photograph.

That photo doesn’t contain the solace of words;
   its stripped of personal quirks,
of laughter,
   of throw-stuff-across-the-room anger.

That photo doesn’t call unexpectedly
   for a spur-of-the-moment question.

You let go as you let go of a child,
   hoping she will thrive in a cold environment
and always wear the badge of her upbringing:
   Your body of work.

You let go, with some pride but with some sorrow, too.
You try not to cry as she braces herself for the world
   and you brace yourself for the solitude.

When you do cry
and the tears have run out,
   you just smile because--
that’s really all you have left.