Post Mortem


“Always comforting to think there is a secret behind what torments you.” – Anne Carson


Or that a letter ripped in fragments

might yield more depth

of understanding, just a piece, unintelligible

black as a rock falling

heavy to the bottom of the lake at night

the splint of a wishbone might be

a needle or a shard from the whiskey glass

after it was thrown onto the porch

I mean dropped after

he died he couldn’t have thrown it though

it had the same anger in it

like the torn photograph that had been

taped back and then torn

in a new place, finally burned

is there a torment like the self

is there a secret like anger, a candle

dead in the grass a long way

from the country cottage, farther

than one could throw a cat

in shadows birthed and in shadows

etcetera the elegy mentions the size

of the space the body consumed

then vacated there is a metaphor

that doesn’t stick I am too close

to the physical in my dream

I come very close to understanding

in my dream I almost touch

the hot heart before recoiling