[center]
[b]A Memory Against Forgetting[/b]
He gave me his hand,
this old tree
blooming between forked branches,
leafless
and fruitless.
His
hand
that unbound, while it wrote,
the weave
of
a
destiny:
the days and the months and the years.
Time
scribbled
in his face,
wayward,
meager,
as if
to dispose all of the lines and signs
of his birth,
until, little by little,
the air would construct what it saw
and establish it there.
Long lines where the depths were,
complementing chapters
for the years of his face,
dazzling symbols,
and equivocal fables,
asterisks-
whatever the shadows forgot
in the old
isolation of spirit,
or dropped
from the sky and the stars,
was scored in his face.
Olden
and bardic,
with pen never fixed
on the river that spills
through our life
or the nameless ones
who attended his verses.
Now
on his cheekbones
the whole of
the mystery
charted
in cold
revelations:
the little
unvarying
slights
of the forgotten,
cut hard
on the page of his
forehead;
and
starved as the beak
of the majestic winderwild,
journeys and waters
had shored
on the dearth
of his
nose
their shadowed
calligraphy.
If only I
I could summon
the blaze
in the cinder,
a flower
in the hands of
a poet.
Now
his clothing
forsook him,
he lived
in the void
of his clothes.
All the bones
of his
body
drew close to
his skin
and vaulted him upwards:
a bone man
displayed, a bony
procurement,
a lessening tree
gone to bone, in the end,
a poet
put out
by the scrawl
of rain
in the unquenchable
downpour of time.
I left him there,
nimble with dying,
walking toward death
as one who awaited the presence
stripped to the bone, like herself,
in a darkening path;
each by the other,
they moved
toward a
crazy girl's dishevelment,
toward the sleep
we shall sleep out together,
whosoever
we are: a woman
with
a withering
flower
in
her
hand,
fallen
to dust.[/center]