The fruit,
the red fruit
that wants to fall —
I am that one.
Sarah Hannah, “Cicatrix”
I wonder;
are there things I can say
to you now — as if
to you now — I could not
before? After,
there seems more silence,
perhaps
the silence a suicide
imagines, a silence
perfected, as if
requiring the living
speak. But
the amplitude
of that invitation,
the generosity of it,
everyone welcome,
was not yours, friend,
to give. Thief
of a nullity capacious
beyond imagining,
what good does it do us,
I wonder,
to hear its echoing
of a voice, as if
from a well,
as if from the earth,
as if, perhaps,
yours, perfected,
when it is only our own
still failing
to know what to say.
*
Someone says, again, “She took her life,”
and I object. You refused your life.
Am I too harsh? I know I can’t know.
But how do I cordon off thoughts
of my two young brothers life refused?
I see them still, in the struggle for breath.
Restraint, I fear, with its many small refusals,
was not for you; the many evenings, one
eye on the weather, putting on your coat
and going home were not for you, nor
the polite excuses; only the one inarguable
and forever private reason you seem to have
had all along. I am trying not to see you
on the sidewalk, lights flashing, yellow
tape, crackling radios. The day I heard,
all I could do was look up at rooftops
and think that something was wrong
with who you thought you were,
or were supposed to be, not who
you were, who you had expertly become.
It left room for argument though,
and argument was what I needed then.
You murdered my colleague, Sarah,
who was becoming my friend,
and you got away with it. And even now
I’m never sure if I am arguing
for the defense or prosecution.
*
Confusion, fine, of course,
but why like a fond old father
has grief come, opening its arms?
Why are you here, old man?
You’re mistaken. Go away.
I didn’t know her that well.
*
Where is it written a woman
who throws back her head to laugh,
showing her teeth to the sun with such joy
she has to wipe her eyes
would not, would never?
Where is it written a woman
with a backpack of books
chosen for each of her students,
thumbs hooked through the straps,
humping the weight of their need
on her narrow shoulders
would not, would never?
Where is it written a woman
wise in the ways of pleasure,
quick to jest, to groan at a pun
she could not resist, to suggest
a poet, a film, a restaurant,
would not, could not, would never?
*
Were there a limbo where
those who were loved
but could not dare
believe it go, then saved
from harm you’d be there,
the door to the roof
locked, on the cold stair,
in a moment’s reprieve,
hands in your hair,
still able to conceive,
then, of us, here,
and how sadly we’d move
through irrevocable air,
and it would be enough,
almost, to forestall despair.
*
Beauty pursued, I hear you:
better to be the crooked tree,
the bitter, indigestible root,
a berry too tart for even birds,
a pepper too hot, a poison.
Best if you can to be no one.
Some say they had noted
like a bulge under your coat,
a pause and a look in your eye,
odd screech in your laugh,
torn cuticle, a strange new way
you moved. Chemicals, neurons,
history — afraid: no one is known,
impressions of presentations,
no one not imagined, myth.
Red fruit fallen in shade.
(I hear you.) No one to blame.
No one in need of forgiveness.
i.m. Sarah Hannah, 1966-2007
