Saturday, April 18, 2015


Sometimes the emotional cacophony of my grief is too alive, reverberates too intimately, to write with confidence.  Instead, I have devoured three poetry books in the last week. 

This one is haunting, for me, in its calm turned desperation.            

by (U.S. Poet Laureate) Kay Ryan

All but saints
and hermits
mean to paint
toward an exit

leaving a
peasant ocean
of azure or jonquil
ending neatly
at the doorsill.

But sometimes
something happens:
a minor dislocation
by which the doors
and windows
undergo a
small rotation
to the left a little
-but repeatedly.
It isn’t
obvious immediately.

Only toward evening
and from the
farthest corners
of the houses
of the painters

comes a chorus
of individual keening
as of kenneled dogs
someone is mistreating.

None of our planning, none of the doctor's lame assurances, none of their insistence that I was overreacting, none of their delayed interventions, could interfere with the tiny propulsions away from Zachary's beautiful future.  Those incremental shifts pushed his brain to the point of hemorrhage.  Cornered him, dead. 

1 comment:

  1. I can't think of any words that could bring you comfort or ease your pain but please know that i think of you and Zachary often, and that i am moved by the depth of your love for him.