I could not save him, though my family begged.
They thought I had that power, given through the love he bore me.
If I had awakened him from his dying sleep, what would they have done?
He would have been a walking shamble, a ghastly semblance of the man they knew.
His brain destroyed, the basic animal functions remained, and those only for a limited time.
Would they have embraced the figure that emerged from the bed?
Sometimes in bitterness I almost wish I had heeded their command.
I should have walked away,
That afternoon under the hot August sun,
When you held my hand but pushed me away
And pleaded with me to understand.
Your brother stood on the veranda, his gaze a baleful glare.
Your mother wilted in her bedroom under the whirr of ceiling fans.
Your father, the Judge, sat in his customary suit and tie in the parlor.
It was the time of revelation, redemption day for us both.
They should know the truth of us, our love, and the life that we planned.
But you couldn’t. You said the heat made you weak.
It was hot, hot and so humid that breathing seemed like swimming.
Our clothes clung to our skin, and I realized
That the famous Delta girl “glow” was just Southern Nice for Delta girl sweat.
You blamed the weather, the long drive, and everything else,
I knew your family had defeated us and shamed you back into their great proper fold.
I should have turned and not said a word, just driven back to the coast and left you there.
Maybe they would have at least let you live.
But I was young and you were young and we were in love.
How were we to know that this love of ours would kill you?
Sometimes I still think it killed part of me, too.
I left whatever part died with you buried beside your grave,
There in the fertile dirt, the sometimes mud, near the Mississippi river.
I am the one who did not look back.
I did not see you standing there ,
Your hand on the screen door,
Like you held it open for my return.
I am the one who threw your letters away.
I did not read your scrawled descriptions of daily life,
Your address still at our old house,
Like you considered me briefly away on a trip.
I am the one who flung our promise in the dirt.
I never looked down at the line on my finger,
The lighter outline itself still a ring,
Like you retained a connection through my skin.
I do not miss you.
I do not think of you.
I do not remember your name.
I am the one who left.
How many tears are enough for the grief of the world?
Can anyone now say even to themselves,
“I can only mourn for this one loss?”
Your heart will shatter anyway, and your eyes will burn from the salt.
So now when we cry, whenever we cry, let our tears
That flow with the wails of newly widowed women, that run down the faces of dying children, that drip unseen onto the hands of solitary men, and the ordinary ones that we shed from expected loss and unexpected reverberations
Let our tears mingle into one great river.
We cannot come together to stop death. We can at least come together to share our sorrow.
(Tara was formed from the tear of Chenrezig who wept in compassion over a suffering world.
Om tare tutare ture soha.)
Your heart has always had a murmur.
I have heard it whisper to me in the night,
“I love you I love you I love you.”
Though I only had a silent heart,
I would hold you close and whisper back the same.
Now the murmur has become so loud
That I can hear it, hear it even over my tears,
Its message never changing.
I hold you close and whisper back the same,
Now adding some words of my own.
“You can go you can go you can go.”
My heart is no longer silent. My heart is breaking.
Take the pieces when you depart.
Without you, I’ve no need of this heart.
The memory of your love will fill the heart-shaped emptiness,
Not quite a heart but far better than the mere organ,
All that I had before I loved you.
I listen to story after story depicting the beloved
Hear again and again the desperate repeated pleas that beg
Doesn’t this act these words that look mean I am loved in return?
I marvel at the furious storm and the abandon of all measure.
So many applaud this loss of control, celebrate such madness in so many ways,
Even term it holy and divine, casting those who do not succumb as suspect and odd.
I’ve been a listener all of my life, this same tale told many a time.
I tried to mimic it myself but very poorly so gave up in relief.
My impulse is to offer remedy, or at least a caution that the gaudy painted carousel
Looks much different when the fair is closed.
I restrain myself unless explicitly asked.
Most only want a sympathetic ear, warm words of encouragement,
And then a bandage for their broken heart.
All these tools I keep on hand.
I wait for you to catch up,
And what do I do while I wait?
Read the books I’ve carried to give you,
The books I’ve read until I know every word.
Study the maps I’ve collected,
The maps I’ve marked with all the places I’ve been.
Examine the cups from which I drank tea,
The cups I’ve crackled from so many steeps.
Hasten please, though I do not mind revisiting these things.
The day ever shortens; my journey beckons;
I cannot remain here long.
You will remain.
When I walk the streets in the rain,
Your silver hair tresses the trees,
And I remember the kindness in your eyes.
When I walk the trail in the sunlight,
Your bright laughter glints from the rocks,
And I remember the joy in your voice.
Always you move in grace wherever you walk,
And the peace that your very presence bestows
Is the gift that you give to us all.
You will remain.
In the early morning of winter’s approach
I feel the cold singing in my bones
An old song that I heard when I was young
In the rooms where elderly relatives gathered
Easing themselves slowly into creaking chairs
Resting their hands on knobby canes
Warming themselves by the crackling fire
I sat in their front on the bare pine floor
The wind rattled the window panes and shook the door
Trying to gain attention but no one gave any mind
The freeze was already evident on the ground
Its notes played out in every step they took
In every movement I now make
No grief over the knowledge
That I’ve never seen my own face,
Only relief.
These images from different mirrors
Glittering back at me
In shop windows, photographs, and even a painting
Are mere appearances.
Likewise, one of my teachers suggested
That altars only have an bare space resting
Where the buddha would be.
On my altar I have placed a statue of Chenrezig,
The bodhisattva of compassion.