Poem for David
Poem for David
David sits in a chair at parties
thinking of his wife Linda, who
died many months ago,
and is still dying, inside him.
It was raining that day.
In his mind it's never stopped.
Even after driving through the desert,
thinking all the hot sun would clear his blood,
he came back and her breath
still whispered, rain-like, through his body.
He is just beginning to accept
what may never leave, just beginning to understand
the mysteries of this tragedy
which he never asked for, but now must decipher
shadow by shadow.
Sometimes he sees things in a room;
wine glasses, faces, gesturing hands
as though from miles away,
one thing in relation to another.
And a great order slowly swallowing
everything in. He didn't ask for this vision. He doesn't
particularly want the knowing of constellations
revolving in his mind He wants to be in the room again,
with a wine glass, hands gesturing, a face amongst faces.
But the season of inner weather
is like winter; made of distance
and quiet waiting. He can't yet see
the clear, wide fields of spring
composing themselves inside him. One day his eyes
will look out from that place, shining.
Ordinary things will reflect a deep, comforting light
which the rest of us can't see
The party finally ends, and he can go home.
Lying in bed, he holds the picture in his mind
for her. Then he sinks, gratefully
into the asylum of sleep
where there is a room
they sometimes share.
David's wife died from cancer.
David's e-mail address
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