Tuesday, June 11, 2013

an angel held my baggage, then vanished. where did she go?

“Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we'll never get used to it.”  
“Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.
I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.”  
“Hello, darling. Sorry about that. Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud. Especially that, but I should have known. You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.”  
I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything… I want to tell you this story without having to be in it.
If the dead are watching, I want them to see us writing, dancing, singing, painting. I want them to see that we still reach out to each other.
Poetry and prose by the inspirational Richard Siken. Extended poems here & here. Richard's boyfriend, Henry, killed himself in 1991, inspiring a collection of poems called 'Crush' about their story and the grief left behind.