I am gone like a shadow at evening;
I am shaken off like a locust. -Psalm 109
A father sobs. His shoulders shake.
It’s still early in the night. More thermite,
more incendiary loss to come. But
his loss is already too great to bear.
And I’m trying to write the words
equal to the despair he feels.
For the abandonment one body feels
in the contorted absence of another. Words to equal
the panicked hands of a mother digging at rubble.
Of a child kneeling in burning magnesium.
But there’s nothing but blue shadows.
There are no words that adhere. I see the face
of a sister through a small screen and see how
grief breaks free and flies away on its own;
then plummets, falls deeper than any words
can reach. Leaves the body excoriated by sorrow.
No words can absorb the weeping.
No letters to act as hand towels to dry the eyes.
No spaces between the letters of words where
a tear might be tenderly held. Everything’s
too tightly wound; there’s no stretch left.
Now, only breaking of the highest possible note.
Like a coyote that mimics a passing siren,
where its voice finally cracks and trails off.
Now, only more collapse to come, no detente,
no easement, no going back now. When
what’s left for a band of lost children,
is the irradiated grief of hope’s end,
there’s nothing to lose.
Words….for those of us who have none.
Deepest gratitude Stephen.
And grateful to you, Pat, for reading and for your encouragement.
Oh, Stephen, your words are so powerful. Thank you for sharing.
This means a lot to me, Cara. Thank you.
Thanks for putting into words the feelings many of us have about the Middle East.
I’m truly grateful for your encouragement, Don. Thank you.
Thank you, Stephen, for finding words for the heartbreak. Grief can render us speechless. The invitation is, of course, to keep turning towards, not away… Your writing does this.
Thank you, Claire. Yes, to “turning toward, not away,” thank you again.
“For the abandonment one body feels
in the contorted absence of another.”
These lines caught my attention. I contemplated the comfort of the bodily presence of, specifically, Erika my wife and imagined a day when one might be absent from the other. But that would not be a contorted absence, such as those you describe … oh the horror!
Thanks for this, Sam.