Who Would I Show it To?
(read by Korbin Jones)
I so much trusted your capacity for delight. Some suicide I’ve been able to see as an end of deep suffering. Your suffering was not to me invisible but outweighed by your curiosities, your sweet absorptions. Birds, nephews. Dancer pose. I’ve tried, but I can’t see your death as an extension of seeking. Come back. I felt this also after my father died. Come back. Plea at the base of the diaphragm. Low-down. Come back. It frightens me, everything caving toward death’s sealed halo. A halo in the gut— Our last conversation was about my father’s body in the hours after he died. Because I got to sit with him. And you described a moth you’d watched fold itself up for death. Am I an idiot? I found you cheerful, as ever your associative pluck and empathy and generosity alive between us. Man of sorrows. Your white hands, your frail shins. Red hair but softly red, a shell-color. One night I was cooking alone in the yard, small fire, small steaks. A nighthawk swept into the light between the trees, two sweeps, two lines it cut, and just as my mind flickered toward recognition, sending up your name, —it disappeared into the dark. If that was you, then why did my father send no sign?