| remembering
carol |
|
| and
in her twenty-second year |
|
| she
would conclude |
|
| there
was just too much |
|
| sadness
in her life, |
|
| that
things had quietly |
|
| gone
wrong and hopelessly |
|
| so
out of hand, |
|
| so
she'd decide to act |
|
| and
take control of what |
|
| was
left for her to take. |
|
|
| and
I remember standing silently |
|
| in
numb surprise |
[and who'll pick up the pieces |
| with
many others in |
who would try |
| assembly
by the dirt |
who will remember |
| that
fell like tears |
who'll lament |
| upon
the casket drizzling rain |
a fawn's cry |
| and
wondering |
all alone |
| should
I succumb to guilt, |
if no one hears her |
| or
was there really nothing |
did she make a sound?] |
| that
a
friend here could have done? |
|
|
| and
still I am afraid |
|
| of
darkness, so I'll wonder which |
|
| of
us is more determined or |
|
| courageous
than |
|
| i
would be in her place, |
|
| or
why she left |
|
| us
here to stare |
|
| at
one another and |
|
| the
empty branches and |
|
| we
here |
|
| will
never know… |
|
|
| ©
Jon Bohrn (1997) ("On the Water's Edge") |
