for Philip Levine Donald Justice has died twice: once in Miami, in the sun, on a Sunday, and once in Iowa City, on a Friday in August, which was not without its own sun—if not bright spot. The first time he died, he was thinking of Vallejo, who died in Paris, maybe on a Thursday, surely in rain. Vallejo died again in Paris, in April, of an unknown illness which may have been malaria, as fictionalized in Bolaño’s Monsieur Pain. “There is, brothers, very much to do,” Vallejo said between his deaths, and Phil, you must have died once in Seville, in the land of Machado, before going again last Saturday in Fresno, so you no longer write to us or bring in trash bins filled with light. Phil, I will die, maybe on a Sunday in Wellfleet, because today it is Sunday, and ice is jamming the eaves, and there is nowhere to put the snow that keeps recalling all those other snows— or the stones on more stones. Copyright © 2015 by Andrea Cohen. Used with permission of the author. |
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