LETTER FROM A BROTHER
It is the tailspin of autumn;
we know where this is going.
When I last wrote
I could still stand alone.
The funniest thing
is watching the leaves
which seem uncertain
where to land—
as if it mattered!
Mother frets
about the drip at my window
and can’t fathom the delay
in the Grieg she ordered.
(Lyrische Stucke—
Jesus-Christus-Kirche recording.)
I was thinking the other day of hope,
how like blood it is
leaving for the first time the body,
how it believes in that new color
for a slick moment
before it begins to congeal …
Do you remember that dream I had
cold winter, no snow?
We were looking for a tree
—it must have been Xmas—
to either decorate or burn.
When I swung the ax
we discovered the tree was glass.
Back home, the wind had blown
your votive candles out.
I think I knew then
our bodies are a kind of crystal ash.
Write, if you get a chance.
Love,
Paul
—from Rattle #19, Summer 2003
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Anne Coray: “Almost daily I struggle with the meaning of poetry in our market-driven, competitive society. Poetry has the capacity to convey respect for language and care for the world, but who is listening? Certainly not those who have come to view life itself as a commodity.” (website)
