May 9, 2025There Is a Fire
We try. We water plants so we can watch
God bloom, we look at rivers till our sadness
feels beautiful. Tumult and peace
and tumult again, and we have no idea
of what decides what rises and what falls.
My daughter combs her hair,
watching the snow come slantly down.
There is a world, through her, seeing itself.
We talk about objects because we cannot
talk about the hidden radiance. We talk
about how Arshile Gorky swam
into the Charles to end his life,
but then remembered painting,
and swam joyously back. Of pines,
of wind. Of how there is a mutual
wounding that’s required for love,
and although no one’s asking, I can answer
that I write about my children to obtain
for them life after death. Why else!
There is a fire at the heart of things
that can’t go out, and we are here,
and we remember it. We try.
A purple comb. Slant snow.
My children are, which I don’t
understand, but no disaster’s possible.
I’m certain what they truly are was
never born. That though the sun
shall not endure, they shall endure.
from #87 – Spring 2025
