–After a poem by Muriel Rukeyser
Where are you now that the darkness has lifted,
and what remains if love doesn’t live on?
When I was five, he saved a bird that fell
from its nest. Cradling his palm, he held it
close to his chest.
So this is love, I remember thinking. And I tell
him my secrets, though he doesn’t reply.
I hear his presence from a faraway place.
I’m trying my best to embrace intention.
What is essential if love isn’t the answer?
When I was nine, he took his life. I wore
a dress with peach taffeta bows. My grandmother
wept, but my mother was stoic. The family
mourned, and no one spoke. My aunt flicked
ashes from her lit cigarette, and a thousand
embers drifted in air. I watched my petticoat
sizzle and burn. She dropped her scotch
in an effort to save me, a veil of alcohol
soaking the chair.
Where are you now that the darkness has lifted,
and what remains if love doesn’t live on?
I’ve saved my memories in one long breath—
they come and go with the mourning dove.
When her glass broke, it turned into shards;
sparkling blades that hollowed the floor—
like a symbol of sorrow that opened a door.
So this is grief, I remember thinking.
A broken heart is always broken.
If I vanish to dreams till daylight arrives,
is this hope, or is this forgetting?
When I was forty, I lost a child. I held it briefly,
though it had died. But oh, so many have
still survived; I fell to my knees and cried
and cried. Thank you. I said to whoever
is listening. Thank you for the honor
of being their mother.
So this is gratitude, I remember thinking,
with the struggle of living steeped in faith.
I’m trying my best to understand time.
I’m trying my best to be alone in this body,
and I know memory is the gift of remembering,
and I know remembering is the way to hope.
The sound of wings are a whistling echo,
and the mourning dove visits another who’s died.
Where are you now that the darkness has lifted,
and what remains if love doesn’t live on?