DEATH BEGETS WINE BEGETS POETRY BEGETS WRITING
One fateful night.
I stumbled into their tragedy.
The loss of three, the life of one.
In acute, charcoal emotion, I lost her.
For real. She slipped through my fingers like
sand or time
or flour.
Grasp as I may,
I've failed.
It's probably the malbec.
Or the bastard who takes life.
Or the bastard who gives poetry.
Either way.
I no longer pretend to be unaffected.
How to plead with the powers that be
for a 47-year old loss?
My
highball
has
never
been
more
empty.
~crm
3 comments:
A few years ago, I wrote a great essay revolving around that poem for an English prof I didn't like. I think my effort was too good for her. She gave me an A. I'd have liked a B grade, just to bring me down a notch or two; I could have blamed the average grade on my daddy.
The best thing that came of that University class was the 5 months I had Her journals checked out of the library.
So lovely. Thank you for the birthday wishes sweetie!! xo
My favourite lines were always:
"The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck..."
I am so thankful that we have the opportunity to grapple with 47-year loss, or longer, to hold spare words in our hands (you beneath your sky, and me beneath mine). Your voice here is metallic, and beautiful...
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