More on: death

I hear these words in your voice no matter who says them, in the well-water smell of the basement, by the artificial tree you and she would one day put a sheet over, so you never had to take it down or put it up again.

Because we die, we all die, and the oak lives, 
those imagined rings like so many glasses 

Set down on a warm wooden table, same 
spot, early evening after early evening— 

Became, in my watery mind, a crazy diagram, 

Set down on a warm wooden table, same 
spot,

If there is
a God, is there such a thing

as holy regret for what he’s made?

Why pray for the dead if not for this,
for God’s speed on their journey, home,
beneath the burden of the proof they bear.

Suffering, I once believed, was a human privilege,
but in that moment I watched as God
died, as God witnessed.

The dead who walk the streets might be a relic of the past, something your Sicilian grandma might tell you about, but the Sanctuary of the Souls of the Beheaded is very much alive.

It’s sugar that makes fruit gel. Sugar preserves. Sugar is an everyday miracle. It causes fruit to retain its bright color, until it is brighter than it ever was on the tree. Heat and sugar alchemize to turn a jar of jam into a glowing jewel.

Every time my father dies, I write a poem.

What is heaven but the immortal fulfillment of a mortal longing? What is it but the most sublime synthesis of memory and dream?

I give you my thanks. Perhaps
you see that in my eyes, although
the only words I have left
are no doubt cruel.