Burial

02.20.06 at 11:46 PM

mark this in time, I said,

my crashing

on narrow shores

when there would be

no turning back

no second chances

no forgiveness

what we needed most

was a breath

of fresh air.

why was there no rescue

that far in?

what we settled for was crude

at best, but it smelled sweet

in the spoon

like sagebrush and myrrh.

I fell over my first time

breaking the lamp

and lay like a monk

in a bed of broken glass

completely gone

and suddenly

one day

it was the rainy season

when her death fell in my lap

unfinished

perhaps I am some

child of wind, I said,

a fury

running blindly

from place to place

I was tired

I couldn’t sleep

O, but I did dream

every night

with my eyes wide open

because I was afraid to forget

I could not tell you about a simple death

a simple suicide

I could not name her or bring you

closer to that corpse of winter

shrouded

I built her tomb

among my dreams

meticulously

carving blocks of limestone

building a shrine to leave her body

with a typewriter and a fountain pen

and no telephone

no front door

no relatives

no, I could not tell you of a simple

time, a word said slowly

enough

to be understood. she was

quicker

than that. she was bearing gifts

laced with cyanide.

she told me

she loved me

night after night

I built it

dreaming

eyes wide open

building

the temple of the suicided daughter

lover

I finally name her, name her lover,

because even death does not change a name.

I crashed so hard there was almost

no saving me,

but her, she was long gone

they had to scrape me off the street

lifted me and I mumbled

leave me alone,

I am building

but they spoke in strong voices

your hands are scarred

and your arms are empty

sleep now

we will watch the door

watch for who?

I asked

and they opened their arms

tore me down

and I cried

dropped all my hammers

and brushes

let my hands bleed

dyeing all their whites

red

as morning

while I tried to remember

a dream without working

say goodbye

they shouted

take her to the door and leave her

she is nothing to you now

she is a ghost. she

needs

to go

let go

but I am building

the job is not done

I argued

who will finish it?

there was only ever one

lover

that was me.

I held circumstance in my grip

until my knuckles paled

and they said

let go

and I gave them my scissors

my twine and buttons and black

cloth, my sewing needles

my pliers and nails

my pride,

my wax and candle wicks

and let them burn the building

and bury the dead

in an old shoebox

on a tall hill

overlooking the ocean

where now only the waves

crash

•  

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• psukomanteion

  (the place where departed souls are conjured)

  would I
  
  call your name in some untranslatable alphabet,
  
  or is the lexicon lost and yellowed
  
  beyond recognition?

  I cannot hear your wings
  
  beyond the gate, though I know
  
  you're Enoch
  
  blessed before the angels
  
  with the letters of creation.

  Here against the wall, the night
  
  bears no resemblance to the day.  I fashion
  
  tongues for the dead
  
  from long white candles.

  What I cannot name I turn
  
  to image, finding no way to explain
  
  the hours I search for some
  
  semblance of resurrection.