There's nothing I can do now. I have their faces,
tattoos burned with bursts of light
on my open eyes. What I see, I see for good:
stacks of bodies
that, like any good pioneer, I could have mapped—
now there's nothing.
If a mother here has a dry eye, you know
it's only because she's boiling inside
the way some fever took her son
in its misty vapor and was gone
without a whistle.
If there's a lover with no arms,
you know it's because he's forgiven them,
those useless tools
with their articulate fidget at the ends.
Every day the world sucks down more sun
and packs it away. Nights, then,
are about radiation: this warmth
hissing back toward the blinding noise
that gave it up
and for us, it means
that slowly, one of us who dies
will enter the rest of us as a breath
or a bright light
or a photograph of a gorgeous young man
who smiles with a fire
where his teeth should be.
The following links are virtual breadcrumbs marking the 27 most recent pages you have visited in Bucknell.edu. If you want to remember a specific page forever click the pin in the top right corner and we will be sure not to replace it. Close this message.