09/01/19

 You died and suddenly I became Ted Hughes,

Sifting through your slow, melancholic poems,

Cutting out phrases and fiddling with words that

Create too stark an image of pain

 

Like Ted, I want to soften the blow.

All those legions and loves waiting to

Hear how they measured up, whether

They warranted a chapter or a footnote.

 

Your mother wants all words that

Disease left behind, but I need to

Keep some to myself – but no,

I can’t be selfish. You hated selfish.

 

In a prior incarnation, we all read

Each other’s private oaths and

Vague declarations of fear and

Felt such quiet, contemplative pity

 

I should have known I was a Mark

Rather than a Roger, that I should

Only be content with more than one song,

More than three chords on a guitar

 

You would hate tributes, this meager summary,

The constant retelling of your perfect phrases.

You would hate the patchwork followers,

Dropping in to sing Bohemia (here she lies)

 

I will be whatever you need – keeper of your cat,

Your keys, your irreverent juvenilia.

I will be the artist, writer, madman

Of all your identities stolen, sent backward

 

Your death and divinity on display,

I bind this book irrevocably.

Perfection in obscurity,

I choose to remember.