What Is It About Words
What is it about words
that seems to make death safe
that seems to make grief sacred?
Can one imagine a gallery of paintings
all of them self portraits
of artists hanging themselves from beams
their brains blown out like paint on canvass
bobbing and bloated in the cerulean and lapis sea?
Can one even imagine an artfair like this,
scene after scene of weeping,
life ending,
not taken but tossed violently back into the sun.
Can one even imagine regrigerators
covered with computer paper and crayon
of children
jumping into sapphire blue?
What is it
about words
that invites death,
that makes authors bold to leave grief on a stranger’s doorstep
an ice cold life
swaddled in words
asking them to nurse it
because it cannot be burried?
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