The Language of Dust
From grave to grave,
I carry my loyalty to you.
—Essex Hemphill
where
do you find
strength
to climb
down the hill
to your lover’s
grave
what
do you bring
but thirteen years
of memories/
how do you deal
with his death
when your gasps
loom
in the autumn air
like circling crows
spasms rock
your body
like squirrels
shake the scarlet oak
& purple dogwood
branches
while through the buzz
of a helicopter
the roar
of an elevated train
the firecracker thunder
of a buddhist service
one can still hear
your sobs
over & over
utter his name/
jan
my jan
even blindfolded
I would find my way
to you
around this
evergreen cemetery
I gaze at
the engraved picture/
I outline
the entwined hearts/
I smooth out
the act-up triangle/
the musical notes
float high
on each side
of your viking name
along with dates of birth
& recent death/
poetry books
flap bold
on each side
of my voodoo pseudonym
birth name & date
open-ended/
I smile at
the “nuclear lovers” epitaph/
I sit on
the grass grateful
I will rest
not soon enough
right here
above you
in the shadow
of the trade center
towering
in the distance/
years ago
after we found out
our status
I begged you
to be buried
with me
because I don’t believe
in the foolishness
of spiritual
afterlife
“the soul survives”
you insisted/
“prove it”
I demanded/
“man is the only creature
known to bury its dead”
you persisted/
“should we act
like dogs & swine”
I contended/
“manhattan queens
why should we be buried
of all places in brooklyn”
you retorted/
as usual
my patience thinned fast/
hysterical I screamed
if you died before me
I could not carry out
your wish to be
cremated/
at first
you laughed
that you would
outlast me
then guessing
the improbability
you lashed back
that I always need
to have things my way
threatening
to replace me
as your executor/
hurt
I held you hard
as you tried
to break away
from my embrace
while cross my heart
I swore
to do right by you/
there was this masochist
ex-priest
who after his lover’s
cremation
adding a dash of ash
to the dough
every Sunday baked a batch
of peanut butter cookies
as he listened to mass
on the radio/
with no more communion
to down as morning pick-me-ups
to sweeten afternoon naps
to soothe nightmares
he dressed in a harness
knelt in the bathtub
slashed his wrists letting
his blood drop
in the urn
while on the cd
callas repeatedly sobbed
“vissi d’arte vissi d’amore”/
drama queen
he reminded me
of something
I would do
like that midday
in summer
I freaked
pulled out my dick
jerked off quick
on the geraniums
over the grave/
I also remember
during my second hospitalization
we watched
this television report
on greedy companies
that cremated corpses
together
& handed families
the wrong remains/
open-mouth shaken
you paced the room
we shared in co-op care/
laid down with p.c.p.
my throat got tight/
then last year
in the candlelight glow
of a swedish meatballs
haitian rice & beans
anniversary dinner
capped with entenmann’s eclairs
you affirmed to be buried with me
would honor our relationship/
that night
we curled
into each other
aware
one of us
would leave roses
tears & kisses
on our tombstone
the next november 9th/
Notes:
This poem is part of “Déjà Vu: A Folio on Assotto Saint.” You can read the rest of the portfolio in the May 2023 issue. All poems and essays in the portfolio are from Sacred Spells: Collected Works by Assotto Saint (Nightboat Books, 2023). Reprinted with permission of Nightboat Books.
Source:
Poetry
(May 2023)
