How We Understand Death
how we understand death
over us; how we do and continue to do
what must be done, so that tomorrow
will somehow resemble today; how
endless each moment, each lifelong ride.
understand, there is nothing you
now know more perfect than this deception.
disguised by our complicity, our unwillingness to stand
empty-handed in the shadow of the inevitable, of the
real (that which needs no believer,
supplies no blessing or curse). what is
there to frame our selves within, if it isn’t
a frame at all? not an edge, not a gate, just a
necklace of bones, an empty screen.
do not, in any case, misunderstand:
death ends all things, and all things end.
ecstatic breathing, slow sadness, desire.
after the descent, the exhale, the end of drama,
those left shape memories however we must, to abide, to fit
how we understand death
The Absence You’re Suddenly Aware Of
This morning you were on my mind suddenly
& for no reason – just a flash of color & an afterburn
in your image, while I sat by the window in Michigan.
Remember how that used to happen?
How I’d think of you in my cottage across town,
feel a longing in my throat, & reach for my phone – just
as you’d text (you’d just send out my name;
“I just wanted to say it”). That never felt like coincidence –
not really. More like sharing a need – the sweet
clumsiness of agreement. It felt
like that today. Were you
thinking of me too, little bird? Did you think
you’d seen my profile against the humid window’s glare?
Look over, expectantly (in spite of yourself)?
Maybe you’re chasing the image
away – the absence you’re suddenly aware
of; the sleeve you’ll no longer tug. Or maybe you’re
smiling subtly at some memory –
your own giggling babble at the edge of sleep,
or a love note & candy bar slipped
through your sun roof, a little surprise
to find after work.
Perhaps you felt suddenly warm & safe,
my arms around you after a nightmare of sorrow
(your father’s deathbed again & again), & I drove
across town (3am) to hold you, rock you
to sleep. You must be sitting by the window in
Louisiana, drifting, detached. You must be wondering –
breathing slow, a little lonely. You must be. You must.
Look at me, little bird,
I’ll believe anything
that brings you back.
Fragments from the Living Room: Springfield
1.
Aaron leans forward on a brown plaid couch.
It has leather arms and one is torn.
He is about to say something, but pauses,
eyes down, fixed on the smeared cigarette char on the carpet by his left foot.
It’s shaped like a tiny fish, turned as if to face his white Nikes.
There are others in the room –
four friends drinking Coors –
and no one has noticed that Aaron wants to speak.
Music is on in the apartment upstairs,
bass rattling the tin on the screen door,
a brown jacket on the floor in a bloated wrinkle.
Aaron wonders what the first word should be, how to even begin.
He has pulled them together to tell them something,
but they don’t know it yet.
He knows it is time to speak,
and nothing is happening.
2.
Aaron leans forward on a brown plaid couch.
It has leather arms and one is torn,
some kind of white gauze peaks, though not quite out.
He opens his mouth, starts to say something,
eyes fixed on the cigarette char on the carpet by his left shoe.
It’s shaped like a fish, and stares at him with the ash-fleck of an eye.
It stares at him, and he wants to smear it even worse with his Nikes –
wipe the face completely out.
Four friends drink beer and talk loudly around him.
He brought them here to tell them something,
but it’s a bad time for that – it’s always a bad time.
There is music from upstairs, the bloated wrinkle of a jacket on the floor.
No one has noticed that he is inching toward voice.
No one is asking him what’s on his mind –
and he is not sure what he’ll say if they do.
3.
Aaron leans forward on a brown plaid couch.
His jacket is leather and one arm is torn.
Beers are passed around him,
and for a moment he isn’t even sure what he’s doing here.
There is gauze in the couch in a bloated wrinkle
and the music is on too loud.
A fish-shaped cigarette char on the carpet faces his left foot –
It begins to smolder, and Aaron can’t speak.
No one else in the room has seen it,
no one else is near enough to notice.
The burn inches toward his foot, and Aaron is having trouble breathing.
There is no way to say that the room is on fire.
4.
Aaron leans forward on a brown plaid couch.
It has leather arms and one is torn.
He wants very badly to know what happens next.
He wants very badly to speak.
We are all here for a reason,
but nothing is happening – nothing at all
About the Author
Chuck Carlise is the author of the collection In One Version of the Story (New Issues Poetry & Prose) and the award-winning chapbooks A Broken Escalator Still Isn’t the Stairs and Casual Insomniac. His poems and essays can be found at Pleiades, Diagram, Southern Review, Nimrod, Verse Daily, Best New Poets, and elsewhere. He lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and directs the Ashland Poetry Press.
