The Thing

 

                                The thing that happens

Becomes at last in time a thing

That happened. Blood fresh

From his head wound soaking

Her pink dress dries to gray

Photo in the textbook the child

Skips, knowing the date but not

The stain is on the test.

Just so, the body leaping

From the tower in flames

Retains its motion in the tale

Old tell to young—then drop,

Seeing incomprehension

Of the pain.

 

Each grip beneath the sun

Succumbs to gravity. Quiet

In the graveyard lies

The man who mowed his

Yard each Sunday without

Fail, just to see his wife

Smile. Trials great or

Small here find their rest:

The man whose craving

Ruined his rehab, the scared

Woman who still took

The podium, the man shamed

Daily at his mirror by bad

Teeth, the wife who’d

Buried her child, grief

No longer wild.

 

Even still breathing, we

Look back as from a train

Receding, at our old self at

The station, waving. Was it

Really me, struck down that

Day of horror, violence,

Or disillusion? Yet

The moment merciless

Mercifully recedes, amputation

Scarred over as life's

Abrasion. Look: the ritual

Thanksgiving pie, the secret

Recipe she’d laugh and

Hide—this year, lost

With the cook.

 

The vet who could not save my dog

Cried. How many years ago?

When I was five, from his

Sickbed, Granddad held out

A shiny dime. He said, “I

Saved it just for you,” and

Gave me it. I knew I was

His favorite.