I
want to tell you how the late flowers bloom,
how
the sun shivers
behind
clouds and the trees gather their roots
and
the groundhog sleeps by the river.
I
want to tell you how the earth hardens
in
winter and the gravedigger's backhoe moans
as
it bites the ground. You were a man
who
dreamed of mirrors and who moved through doom.
You
drew invisible faces and sang to invisible walls.
I
want to tell how a spider wove the western
light
and joined us to the night
beyond
the womb's cave, beyond the cask of love,
tumbling
in the freedom of the grave.
*
*
You
lived by diving and by diving grew.
You
knew the risks of your downward flight:
hard
earth, hard water and the black holes under.
Time
and again you survived. Time and again
the
earth bared her chest
and
kept you from black winds
that
twisted the wings off a million men.
You
passed through the surface like a needle,
felt
the water's lips on your breast,
reached
the bottom thick with roots,
studded
with stones. You saw the bones
of
your father, you heard the siren songs,
the
splash of the boatman's oars.
I
looked into the lake where you dove
and
followed your frog-like figure.
I
counted seconds till you rose, open-mouthed,
glassy
curls streaming from your head.
You
called to me to jump. I froze,
afraid
of the moment when the feet let go,
when
the stomach hangs and the body holds.
Years
I watched you, heard you calling,
years
I counted as you swam away
until
I could barely see you,
couldn't
hear my name bubbling from your lips.
I
found a mirror in your room, square and shallow
as
I wanted, and when it was time
I
dove head first. The glass shattered,
shards
flew to the floor and I never looked again,
loving
you for calling, hating you for urging me on.
With
wet hands fresh from diving
you
tried piecing me back.
You
called to God and the dark echoed a moan.
You
looked for my face in the flowers
and
found the eyes of your enemy.
A
white shroud waved in the distance,
nettles
grew on the shore.
In
a morning like all other mornings I remembered
how
beautifully you'd swum, how you left me
by
the thorns and mud, out of numbers, out of name.
I
saw you shining with watery work,
happy,
diving water bird,
until
a piece of darkness struck you
and
you fell like a diver twisted by black winds,
you
moaned like a lake does when it shatters.
*
*
In
my dreams I see your mouth.
It
swallows pianos, butterflies, old sorrow,
older
joy. I see your pillow of warm bread,
your
heart unsheathed to the night.
I
watch you go to the City of Birth
and
lie with the truth of your wounds.
In
a morning like all mornings
I
watch you strip the ground of illusion,
look
on the water of shadows, dive, disappear.
