The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. ~ T. S. Eliot
When you left, you gave me
the finger, revisiting to dump
all that spiteful attitude and I
was unprepared, knocked off
my feet. Hours later, still
struggling, my text messages blew
up with your death notification.
Below the stinging farewell
is dark dread, and I can tell
your passage was rough,
a frantic reaching out
for anyone, can you hear me?
And I am an opening,
even in my dreams, a place
to grab and curse and sob.
My teacher told me to ground
when I am too sensitive,
to deepen my base, connect
to the great earth. This is no
time to take the easy way,
as I did for years, ignoring
your calls, nosy and critical
and always to be avoided.
Now my symptoms flare, reeling
with the immediacy of your need.
We are entangled here,
and yet there is a vastness
between the knots that you’ve tightened
in your terrified panic.
All of the years sitting at Mass
depending on the priest
to guide you, but he’s closed your eyes
and said the last rites
and you are lost and alone
when you come upon me.
Look into the tightly packed
molecules of resistance, and you’ll see
farflung galaxies. The change in perception
a tiny shift and existence opens
a river of stars across the skies.
Our hearts trembling into the cosmic
heart, our fears transformed
into the spacious love,
the number you called at the very end,
the one I finally answered.
Releasing the nausea and headache
even as you let go of the psychic
phone, our connection revealed in soul-light.
We agreed to be each other’s harsh
teachers, remember, my darling?
Every word, every gesture can be
reinterpreted now in the wide lens
of forgiveness and unification.
I’m rising from my sickbed
and I celebrate your passing
grateful as that delicate, hidden
harmony emerges, at last.
Inspired by: Delicate, Communication, Harmony, Attitude