Tracy K. Smith

Weightless, unhinged,

Eons from even our own moon, we’ll drift

In the haze of space, which will be, once

And for all, scrutable and safe.

I didn’t want to wait on my knees

In a room made quiet by waiting.

A room where we’d listen for the rise

Of breath, the burble in his throat.

I didn’t want the orchids or the trays

Of food meant to fortify that silence,

Or to pray for him to stay or to go then

Finally toward that ecstatic light.

I didn’t want to believe

What we believe in those rooms:

That we are blessed, letting go,

Letting someone, anyone,

Drag open the drapes and heave us

Back into our blinding, bright lives.

Death was thinking what it owed him:

His ride beyond the body, its garments,

IT & CO.
We are a part of It. Not guests.

Is It us, or what contains us?

How can It be anything but an idea,

Something teetering on the spine

Of the number i? It is elegant

But coy. It avoids the blunt ends

Of our fingers as we point. We

Have gone looking for It everywhere:

In Bibles and bandwidth, blooming

Like a wound from the ocean floor.

Still, It resists the matter of false vs. real.

Unconvinced by our zeal, It is un-

Appeasable. It is like some novels:

Vast and unreadable.

Like God, it has no face. Like lust,

It flickers on without a prick of guilt

Bowie will never die. Nothing will come for him in his sleep

Or charging through his veins. And he’ll never grow old,

Time never stops, but does it end? And how many lives

Before take-off, before we find ourselves

Beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold?

The future isn’t what it used to be. Even Bowie thirsts

For something good and cold. Jets blink across the sky

Like migratory souls.

What

Would your life say if it could talk?

I.
I don’t want to hear their voices.
To stand sucking my teeth while they
Rant. For once, I don’t want to know
What they call truth, or what flags
Flicker from poles stuck to their roofs.
Let them wait. Lead them to the back porch
And let them lean there while the others eat.
If they thirst, give them a bucket and a tin cup.
If they’re sick, tell them the doctor’s away,
That he doesn’t treat their kind. Warn them
What type of trouble tends to crop up
Around here after dark.