Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Invested In Dissembly

The day of your funeral I sat on a park bench in the steaming city and watched a tidal sway of strangers where once abounded friends. Can a lake be unhappy? Peaches are a possible but difficult crop in New England.

Thank you for those quiet mornings in the meeting house, discussing the letters of Margaret Mead. Hugs beneath a cherry tree, memories of maybe seventh grade, when one's awareness of danger is compromised but evolving. We tell stories, it's what we do.

The fox came from the east, ducked beneath the broken horse fence and studied me studying it, light fading as the moon rose above us both. A jeweled line of blood where the jaw rested, somewhat removed from the otherwise intact skull. You're hungry and it shows.

I'm going to give up the vintage leather jacket, I promise, okay? I'm not following anyone anymore in a vain effort to follow God. How can I admit to being a poor student, a lesson you drove home repeatedly the last time we talked?

Ships at the lake's bottom recall my sorrow and also the fantasy I made, where you come back with bells. One skips, one dances and one arrives at a wall beyond which only silence plays. We must have walked that street in Jerusalem ten thousand times asking ourselves what, if anything, we might have done about the execution.

To be troubled is at times to be loving, as love itself is often invested in dissembly. Our letters functioned as imperial goads, driving us ever deeper into a European dream. The dead at Kent State are allowed no rest.

This morning belongs to your memory. Later I'll swallow my pride and see if anyone is still crying behind the barn.

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