|You found the heart; now find the agates.|
Of the season, let go. Of the ache to shape and make meaning,
let go. Of the hand in the dark, moss and worm, the awful gnaw.
Of the docked tongue, the root-clenched heart. Let go trunk mold,
branch rot. Of the green shoot that sprouts through your death,
being born, let go. Of quietude of a peace so deep,
of the changing light—of the euphonious chorus
of children, let go....
We stood on stoops and called each other out to play.
We did not trust doorbells or any closed door.
Anyone with a piano or a dog of recognizable breed.
We agreed it’d be good for the town to see
you. Stories had you half buried already,
and we were all so broken, panicked
but not saying so. And you relished the joke
of a sick man running for office, so Irish
in its blackness—nothing funnier than disaster.
|Karin Wagner Coron|
|Sarah on Tuesday morning|