Anniversary Waltz

These are the things that remain unrung
After the time that has come
And those who cannot, do not think
Of then, of when the small things tell.

This is the thing that remains unnoticed,
that makes no sound on the clinic floor,
no slivers of glass under barefoot thoughts
padding over tiny white specks of plaque

hiding the bathroom door

You cannot hear a synapse break, cannibals
lurk among time-bombs of uncertain flesh
exploding buttons and timers and radios
into useless scraps of forgotten instruction

names depart

Tabs marked hope no longer fit into slots of joy
Captionless photos are retouched by story brushes
too dry to paint celebration on strangers' faces,
smeared familiarity replaces what is given

with what is taken away . . . . . . . . . . . . cell by cell

The shower water falls, washing away the surface
of what rebuilds itself in the factories of decay,
Joe once gave her five bucks to shut up for five minutes,
now, even the anniversary songs of my grandparents

begin to whirl at the lip of the drain

The faithful walk to evening Shabbot, when the soul must rest
from the making of worlds, and worlds within worlds. Behold!

The gift and the labor. The bone-deep ache
that recalls for you its longing to build
and to see, to nurse the young, to protect
the weak, to wall the storm, to set the fruit
and to teach. Kaddish is a dying thing;
Even the names of your children will pass away
and the flesh will forget this life before its own;
oh so quiet life, oh so modest life of daily songs
unsung.

Anniversary Waltz (fr. Stewards of Mortality)

©Red Slider, 1997, 2006 all rights reserved.

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