————At once the Soul of each, and God of all.
————————————S.T. Coleridge
To a soul in crisis once, the mind
——-—was made of hair strung into a harp.
A spirit cloud drifted through
——-—the mouth of an open window.
So sensitive the instrument,
——-—the wind would play it, give it blood.
It sounded a voice so tenuous
——-—and near he took it for a stranger.
One intellectual breeze, he said.
——-—Now plastic and vast across the petaled
switchboard of the garden, the grave,
——-—the produce aisle. Dear seraphim
of the lunchroom radio, is it true.
——-—In the skull of each, one signal,
many songs, the prima materia
——-—of those who listen as they speak.
One newscast among the many
——-—embattled fears and understandings.
To a man in crisis, I ask, does
——-—the thrill that hurls a millennium
of nerves and cares, mycelia of joy,
——-—into the air know: this sensation
of belonging could be yours alone.
——-—You could be one shivering strand
of pitch, one traveler in a crowd,
——-—and the others in the train car go
about their inner lives, unaware,
——-—heads bowed or looking out the glass.
Whoever you are, they whisper,
——-—you know, of course, I am not here.
No doubt familiar, the terrible
——-—wonder of life an inch from earth,
until someone wakes you, holds up
——-—a hand and asks, how many fingers.
Which is one way of being alone
——-—together, in the shadow of an angel
above the broken version of you,
——-—small, confused, breathing in a bag.
What does it say when you repent
——-—the rapture, like a soul in crisis,
and set to music the manic roar.
——-—A harp could save a man like that.
He could find himself in hospice
——-—where, with a little help, the space
between objects shivers like a sack
——-—of bees. It makes it easier to die.
To be a little of none, a lot of all,
——-—bound in a ganglia of bare trees,
roots, conversation. To bear a mask
——-—of skin that shields you as it breathes.
Across a stone the flower, the toy,
——-—the personal memento. I loved
a man who drank alone in the dark.
——-—The end was hell, though my cat,
who bears his name, wandered in
——-—and out like music in a window.
What does it say when you throw
——-—the wolves your last scrap of meat,
and the pills you take do nothing,
——-—and your pet says, I know, I know.
Solitude can take a vein so deep
——-—it goes unnoticed. I loved a man
who hid his life like a knife
——-—in a dumpster. One of the many
who sat in basements full of music,
——-—and did what it takes to live and die,
because why not, or do not ask.
——-—If only I had known, I thought,
and then the hubris of the question.
——-—The song in the room takes breath
from a common atmosphere,
——-—with words exhaled from a soul
in crisis. Let the basements fill
——-—with talk turning into ballads.
Music says, dear phantoms, come,
——-—whoever you are, and a child hears,
people who are broken, you there
——-—who descend these stairs with a vial
of laudanum, a bookmark made
——-—of hemlock, a stranger’s addiction
to beauty and its reasons to survive.
——-—You are all invited here.
Bring whatever nerve stripped bare,
——-—your breath in the sail of the sternum,
your harp and anthem, your inaudible cry.
——-—for Scott
Bruce Bond is the author of thirty-seven books, most recently Invention of the Wilderness (LSU), Therapon (with Dan Beachy-Quick, Tupelo), Vault (Richard Snyder Award, Ashland), Lunette (Green Linden), and The Dove of the Morning News (Test Site Poetry Award, Nevada).
Image from Unsplash+, taken by Joshua Earle
