2 Letting Go

Imperfect Grass (Breckenridge, August 1998)

And so on his grandfather’s birthday,
he killed himself,
not thinking, I suppose, that it matters,
that perhaps the date had nothing to do with his action,
that it was too late,
in any case,
to work up the traction it would take to stop.

Or, perhaps, with some logic he thought
he would find him there in light at the end of the tunnel,
his arms spread out in greeting and anticipation,
with a sudden shout having left what it was he was doing,
put a jacket on,
and rushed out to meet as to a train.

In this way the brain deals with grief and with anger and with loss.
There is so much pain that emotion itself gets spread out
like a blot in rain
or a blanket of mud behind the eyes.
What is left is strain.
It is difficult even to remember.
Still I know that time will pass and a flatness take over.

Alone I climb up high where wild grasses are growing
and pikas line
rocky tunnels with their winter hay.
Here air is thin and my breathing is labored and rapid.
Here I begin
my count of things fragile that pass:
dry grass that burns
for a short time, but gives sudden light.

The Climber (or Humpty Dumpty)

The wall he fell down was not steep, but the fall was far
beyond where a father could reach.

Like a falling star,
no more could he unbend in an instant what the hand of time
closed fingers on and claimed for its own.

He could not out climb his own sense of guilt.

Failing purpose, his legs too numb
and his breathing too harsh,
he lost purchase.

It was not much fun.

Alone and in pain, he lay down.
It was now his wish to forget, to be free, and to sleep.
Sleep would be a balm in a world that had tortured too long.
It would be a test
to see if at last he could rest.

Now his breath was calm.
He no longer thought of struggle and pain.
Peace was like a song
that only he was able to sing

and it fell like rain.

Mouse

These are days of sameness
mountains flat and waves without emotion.

Time moves on, but I cannot remember names of days
and would not know the time except the sun
begins its route each morning.

Thought shuts down to grayness, plain and simple,
like a mouse,
now flat and desiccated in a trap,
that once was filled with life and ran about
and squeezed through cracks too thin
and got lost in an open box of cereal.

Where I tossed the box the mouse was in is just out back
where birds are fat with pleasure
and the cat
that is my neighbor’s cat renews her hunt.