In light of death

All men practise coping.

Between them they manage to split the universe into two parts.

On two hands, I have already counted what I need and put it aside.

Once, we talked about how we would never talk about it -

The way the only stars we see from earth are the dying ones,

and how before we may even notice their beautiful glow,

they might be dead. The way your heart shone, too.

There was a man I never knew, and I remember how, at his funeral,

I fainted and met him for the first time, in blackness, near the sun.

But it was all within a moment, and I was young, and now, I cannot

be sure if it was him, or the sun, or death that I met. Breathing, again

from that same church, the stained glass shedding colour, and that ceiling,

coffered like the chests of women who weep, this afternoon moves quickly.

Although we cannot know the sun, there is no reason why we can’t

divide it to fit the space, to fill us up and remove the dark.

We have seen those before us deny themselves this, so it has become

what we require of ourselves. Perhaps, all we require of ourselves.

The accommodation of light. The reduction of dark.

A river is never a safe place to swim, especially not a wide one,

especially not at night. We were never strong swimmers

 and I think perhaps it is a trick of the memory,

the way we rode  across currents with violent

voices, held our feet down so as to avoid abandonment, exhaled

 and then inhaled, again. Eventually,

everything deflates – lungs, rivers, dark shadows, memories.

Now, tasting salt in my cheeks, I make one step into the blue

from a bluer shadow, witness the way death has touched the world

so bitterly it is still searching for the taste of its own mouth.

I do not remember the beginning of anything, though I too will die, so

must have begun. All eyes are on the hollowing out of shadows

but mine of the fantail feigning flight above my father’s head.

Though I was there, I do not even remember when he began to end.

Outside, there is a singing from the not-quite-ripe insides of nectarines.

There are moments when my life believes in their ripening, the sweet

flesh succumbing to deep sunlight, dividing it, requiring it. Then

there is the rest of time, when, considering the forever shape

of the river, of his gasping mouth, of the stone lodged

in my throat, I cannot but know that those nectarines

have fallen from their trees much to early.

The day deflates into the night.

I am learning how to fold and knot my breath.

 

Author's Note

thoughts on form, the sun section and anything else appreciated!

Reviews

[Nikhil Sharda]

i think this poem is by the far the finest one that i have. great images. loved the last line specially///there was so much of the poet in the poem. noticed a confused thought in the middle saw the vision clearing by the end of the poem. a great job i must say and probably a must read to people cause there is so much to learn from your poem. hope that you write more exciting stuff so that i come again and again to read it. good luck and have a nice day.