Kristin Kovacic
When you clear out the house of your father's
cracked cousin--never married, grey blur
on the edge of your snapshots--
you are amazed at the intricacy
of my unimportance: abridged books--easily
a thousand--ashtrays, rain scarves, solitaire decks,
jelly jars, husks of Spanish peanuts,
china dogs, souvenir spoons, shoes, shoes,
shoes, shoes. A house, now yours, engorged
with the worthless, every nothing there is,
and you wade through it, astonished
by my treasureless departure.
You might even imagine me, now,
my Reader's Digest days--
my dice and Word Searches and transistor radios--
my meals of ash and hamburger.
You might make a sympathetic noise
with your tongue, now, tasting your own
fulfillment. My house will be a tomb.
So you won't hear the interesting
sounds that accompanied me, the sound
of my chewing, my small teeth working
their animal work, tender as a fox.
The sound of my smoke; a tiny sheet
in the breeze. When you find portraits
of your children folded in squares,
leveling my chairs, you will wonder
just what went on in here, all the years
that bloomed below your noticing.
I tell you: I smelled myself.
Some days I was the ocean; some days
toast. I ate your castoff chocolates;
I ate without God. I had visions
in the whispering blue flame and the glistening
water. I crocheted hats for the grapefruit
your father sent from Florida;
I was funny as Hell.
My life had its own beauty; I saw it
even then, even during your dashing visit
with the camera and our descendents.
We do not descend, I wanted to say
to you, to your wife picking my hair
from her coat. We rise to take the brilliant
mail into our arms. We go up like smoke;
we make that eerie sound. I wanted to say
that every motion, even plunging, even
collapse, has its own grace.
Don't congratulate your ass
because you never sit. Sit. Watch
my dust experiment with flight. Imagine
you're running a race and suddenly stop;
that second; your breath ascending.
Victory is here. Here is the treasure.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Kristin Kovacic