I’ve been debating whether to post this poem for a few days now. The subject is macabre, and it sits squarely within the broader theme of grief. I’ve written about grief here before—for an example, pieces like Grave Work, The Soil of My Heart, and The Rearview Mirror.
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When I was younger, I knew grief, but it never truly occurred to me just how much of my life would be steeped in it. Not just the loss of loved ones, but the quiet dying of friendships, relationships, and dreams. The hurt of missed opportunities, of misjudged words and intentions. The loss of good health, of purpose, of the joy to wake up eager for the day with an unwavering inner belief that something great may just be around the corner.
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This is a memorial poem is for a family friend who stood beside us through some of the hardest times imaginable. The kind of person you’d picture in solitude, reading in serenity, contemplating life’s bigger questions—until, without hesitation, they were up and running to help someone in need. Even within their own human restrictions, they never stopped extending a hand to those who needed them.
He was, in every way, a Rare Heart.
Rare Hearts seldom receive their due in poems or art, and I feel both an obligation and a deep desire to make sure this one does not pass into memory uncelebrated.
—
Gold chapel —
virgin light drips from eaves on my shoulders.
Olive branches bow,
craving touch, pressing
into my skin. I fear the soil,
yet plant my feet by the headstone
marked with a Pisces,
in the bitter heat of Osdine.
I arrived
with wilting peonies
and a wick unlit.
Flames burn fingertips
burst from spark
to wildfire.
Dry trees scream.
Church bells
ring, ring, ring —
to mournful tintinnabulation.
The poured drops of absinthe hiss
and vanish on the scorching marble.
The vapor stings my nose —
my hands tremble.
The spicy scent jolts me back —
to 2012.
The tipsy man, half-crying, half-chuckling —
who once rode for miles to bring me cherries,
arriving instead with a ripped paper bag.
Through the chapel’s window,
I watch the sun collapse into the horizon —
as I stew,
chained
in the tar-black petrol
of grief.
—
*Osdine, the archaic name of the area before the reform.
It’s strange how the most macabre places can also hold all you love —
you dread going,
but dread leaving even more.
