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The Sound That Haunting Makes
I'd like to talk about how the day went, talk as we used to do,
not with singing words, but smaller celebrations gathered until
we noticed the ridges of each other—
the missing parts that no one else could see.
I don't mind that you’re away, an understandable
shift—aerodynamic in fact—you loved to fly—but
that you would forget me is impossible.
Did you see this sweater’s lost a button loop?
And that excessive fruit makes the basket spill?
Are you laughing at my decorating skill?
Are you assuring me the problem is in the straw,
its weaving, the oversized pear, the lopsided chair?
I'd like some decisions from you, yet I understand—
as a passenger of time—you are beyond my reach.
I need some help with perceptions, logistics—
teaching myself to live under the weight of visibility.
Since we seem to be of two different geographic climes,
can you direct me closer to you? You, who flew from Japan
to California using only the stars. Should I sit here in the sun
or move my hands, my heart, a little to the left?
I understand these are contradictory criteria—
the living and the dead—yet at times, through my devotion
to the past, plus my unreasonable emotions, I feel a
radiant warmth encircling me. Of course, at other times
The cumulative effect of memory left on its own is staggering.
Yesterday, you were solid as stone, rich with detail, revolving around me,
and other days like this one, I'm sure you understand,
It's as if it never happened.
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Grace Cavalieri is Maryland's tenth poet laureate. She founded "The Poet and the Poem" for public radio, now from the Library of Congress, celebrating 44 years on-air. Her latest books are Showboat (2019), which centers on her 25 years as a Navy wife, and What The Psychic Said (2020, both books from Goss 183 Pub.). Her latest play is "Quilting The Sun," Theater for the New City, NYC, 2019. She was married for 60 years to the late sculptor, Kenneth Flynn. They had four children. Grace lives in Annapolis, Maryland.
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Kenneth Flynn with one of his sculptures