An ending was ended on a mountain
Could there be an accomplishment more beautifully interrupted than this,
So heightened, sacrificial and irreversible?
It is nothing posthumous or posterior that hurts him,
When no leaves reflect light any more
And an apple is hung in the cold mid-October night air.
A cave-in is waiting insidiously at the mountain foot.
He explains to himself
In French "histoire" means history and story, all that have come to pass.
At every nerve burn he backs up, like a prawn, weightless on a few space-walk steps,
As if an artist, playing with life, gloats at the Medusa gaze he creates with blood.
Crumbs on the stale palette begin to melt and stick to each other,
And a smile emerges from the water of memory.
— I remember the first time you were fallen upon when you were still a rowboat.
— Please! Why not forget?
— Oh, it’s just there, calling itself up. It has dignity and self-love stronger than mine.
— That’s weepie! Let me send you an emoticon of crying like downpour.
— Gee, my columnar cactus is blooming. I am not a pillar of salt.
— How creamy is this ice lolly! It can sail on any river.
"He has taken all the holy names in vain," he reports himself to himself,
But he is saying to the phrase "Just for you," so religiously.
He then closes his eyes, learning the way a plummet sinks into a coal well,
And one of his feet is tied to the cross on the mountaintop.
He sees his own face on the liquid love down there,
And he scoops some for his own wake or maybe her parasuicide or suttee.
September 29, 2008