I am walking down wet and muddy stony really stony alleys of the Warsaw cemetery Jewish that is just by the ghetto once here and ever, reading those stones, I guess, of the lucky Jew people and persons who got to die in their beds at home or hospital and from the grave beyond got someone to put up a marker with all kinds of words to fix their life in stone, and just across the street on the now rebuilt Polish city once lived and then died killed murdered some 350,000 Jews, so I along with other genocide tourists am looking for some metaphor or simile or symbol that’s it symbol to lend grasp and mastery even understanding by which to memorialize that I was here isn’t that what memory and metaphor are about not them the murdered past but me and us the here for now and narcissistic, so this rain is drizzling down on my ‘take a Ralph once Lifshitz now Lauren cap it will keep you dry’ this is great I got me and us a metaphor, it is drizzling rain what a God gift God Himself crying over it all, that’s me metaphor it works doesn’t it it’s raining God’s tears but they are all dead and ash
here you cannot help remembering King Lear, blind, forsaken on that hostile, wind-lashed heath of Hagar crouched beneath a dry shrub shielding her son’s parched skin against the mid-day sun’s belligerence herself against despair
stones grow in the desert the universe shrinks prize and priority diminish desire ebbs to fit uneasily inside two starkly naked words:
Very many years ago I dated a roaring alcoholic Who taught me many things about many things; Much of what I learned was about me—such as, For example, that I didn’t have the guts to retire From what wasn’t even a love affiar. This is sad To write, even now, but I bet we all learn slowly In this crucial area, yes? But I learned much else That was haunting and poignant. Alcoholics, she Told me, incise a web and welter of scratches on Their car doors, just by the driver’s side keyhole; They are always poking haphazardly in the dark For where the keyhole used to be. You hear lines Like that, your heart breaks a little for the busted Parts of us all, you know? Yes, it’s a disease, yes, It’s a social ill, a terrible one, it’s haunted history, It’s hammered children, shattered families, stolen Unimaginable oceans of creativity and joy, killed Millions of people who might have been stunning Bolts of light in their own amazing ways. But this Evening, opening my car door, I think of the poor Souls thrashing in the dark, desperate for an open Door, scratching their illegible runes, scribbling a Sad new alphabet in the bright glitter of their cars.
My brother makes lists of what he needs to live. He is down to a towel, a small rucksack, good socks, rice and beans and clementines, and flip-flops for strange showers. He wants to be a saint and the holiest travel light. Easier to press close to God wearing only a thin shirt and holding a short list of other loves. He worries, sharp-nosed and sweet, how much to treasure a sturdy hat or a stack of warm tortillas; he digs his fingers into the rocky, well-loved home soil. He’ll have to shake it off, so’s not to be weighed down on his way to heaven. In this late night during a visit home, our parents snore tenderly in a distant room. We do not speak of loving God more than one’s family, though we both know the rules; we do not speak of knees scarred by prayer. Loss and revelation both come in whispers: we do not speak.