Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Shrouded And Without Intent
I remember in Ireland sitting with you while you played your fiddle. The long slow notes of Killala to start. We made love on hills where sheep browsed only yards away. I have been around the world to end up here. Acres of diamonds indeed. We are beholden to symbols, usually against our better interests. And yet. I remember leaping off the pier with my sisters laughing, the first summer after he went away. A lot can be said that isn't. And a lot goes unsaid that oughtn't. Well, sooner or later we all learn. There was quiet in how after you asked did I mind if you smoked. The clouds were fine that summer in Ireland, weren't they? I won't learn Russian but I will say yes the way you need. I always do, for the ones who are ready, even though it hurts. Night comes, and rain after midnight, and I go back inside, reluctantly. The grateful understand bonds. I fall weeping and she holds me without question or judgment. "It's your brother again, isn't it?" I cannot speak but only see him: alone, shrouded, and without intent: dead.