For Sarah, August 2018
Never knew there could be so many tears…
Rivulets descending Mt. Brandon,
innumerable tributaries
subterranean springs,
ineffable as her smile
so flush so bright,
so full of pain
until the end;
her lips a dry riverbed.
In deep caverns
aquafers drain and fill,
wells hold the wet.
Eyes become geysers
drench the moment,
saturate the space;
glistening cheeks
on a bearded face.
The lavender scented trace,
from nape of her neck lingers
strong hands,
embrace
fingers on shoulders
strong back bending,
heaving granite boulders
forming the crescent
walk-way
from cabin to studio;
arching as I lay on her
in that cottage in a cloud
clinging to the
conifer-covered ridge.
In the studio is
her drill press
and oxy-acetylene tanks
tools for jewelry,
cutters, hammers and
the world’s smallest anvil.
Myriad silver creations
diverse and mad as flocks of birds
her thoughts and visions united
always
in the doing of,
the making of something:
Pasta sauce, earrings, mittens,
leather motorcycle seat,
tutus.
Sometimes I go out and sit
on the crying stump,
stare into the trees
and the ridge that thrusts
impossibly upwards.
Near is one of her dog’s graves,
covered in stones;
a green collar with faded gold tags
hangs on the wooden sign
she made
carved his name
with a lathe.
-
I’ll walk the streets of Arklow
seek my sweet thing,
the way young lovers do,
is how we did,
though neither of us young.
Love, amorphous as the ocean,
dangerous, bewildering, exhilarating.
We were together
in the bucolic bliss
of a woodland retreat,
on the raucous shore
of the Atlantic Ocean.
In bars, restaurants, canoes
on hidden ridge sides,
tiptoeing down deer trails.
We were together
in doctor’s offices, hospitals
riding a roller coaster
always knowing…
she knowing
I knowing
doctors knowing
everyone knowing
there is no solution,
there is no cure.
Yet she was pure ‘til the end,
fighting,
knitting on the couch,
fucking up the threads,
unable to sign her name,
walks into bed.
24 hours later dead,
her heart beating long after the final breath.
I sit in the health and wealth
of her forest retreat
walk through mud in bare feet
hear her laugh echoing
in the boughs of hemlock
rushing,
tears down my face
gushing.