A cold wind, later, but no rain. A bus breathing heavily at the station. Beggars at the gate, and the moon like one bright horn of a white cow up there in space. But really, must I think about all this a second time in this short life? This crescent moon, like a bit of ancient punctuation. This pause in the transience of all things. Up there, Ishtar in the ship of life he’s sailing. Has he ripped open again his sack of grain? Spilled it all over the place? Bubbles rising to the surface, breaking. Beside our sharpened blades, they’ve set down our glasses of champagne. A joke is made. But, really, must I hear this joke again? Must I watch the spluttering light of this specific flame? Must I consider forever the permanent transience of all things: The bus, breathing at the station. The beggars at the gate. The girl I was. Both pregnant and chaste. The cold wind, that crescent moon. No rain. What difference can it possibly make, that pain, now that not a single anguished cry of it remains? Really, must I grieve it all again a second time, and why tonight of all the nights, and just as I’m about to raise, with the blissful others, my glass to the silvery, liquid chandelier above us? Copyright © 2015 Laura Kasischke. Used with permission of the author. |
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