8th graders graduated yesterday at my work. A class I was very close to.
Speaking to a grandmother of a student about her husband's recent death; I had sent that student Whitman's Hymn for Death from When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd as it'd meant much to me during my mother's passing; esta abuela me dijo: "tu entiendes algo de la perdida" (o quizas me dijo "algo de la muerte"?); I responded with the story of the month between Sonia's birth & my mother's death. Things you can't forget.
I'm going to miss that class.
I found this poem & I can't remembering writing it. Did I write that? Is this poem mine? It's about some of my obsessions, so maybe it is.
& then it was asked—by the air, let’s say—
what do we do, painting pictures, seeking
the abstraction of to be in the contradictions
of the day? Or better: stand & shout. Or
better: make it pretty. Or better: don’t add
to heartache. Or better: tell a story of the
time you spent staring at the time & were
left empty of money, built of money, money
talks so talk more bucks. Better. Insipid to
wish for a home which didn’t bomb homes
with the $ spent to build it. Admit it. Air
asks. Sirens respond. Air empties. Sirens.
Hugs—
Dan
