If I Am to Be Filled

From the concave downwards,
the deep-dive (an abyss),
from the held breath,
the long stretch of black water,
from the giving under,
the quick disappearances—

And perhaps:
toward a great distance,
a wisdom waiting for us,
toward a falling forward (a lurching),
a falling upward (an exhilaration),
toward a stroke that is a place,
an unknown depth become known.

She’ll have no morrow,
no morning meal,
(Another? Please, another?)
she’ll have no more;

In the night, she’ll shut the door
to know she’d walk away;
An answer from above will
come from within;

She’ll hold your hand,
(if anything; if briefly),
(if fleeting; if anything),
if just for the smiles of the day,
of the morning, of the morrow;

No more came to see her,
but one more winter (Please?)
in the night, in the doorway;

You, of the night, of memory
drunken, soaked, forgotten,
of quiet, cross-legged, rugged;
(she’ll have no more);

(Of what would have come,
we hold still, steady, steady;
but for the sunrise slowing,
and our pulse steadying,
she will leave it be.)

I met a sky of phthalo blue
this morning, last night still
thick on my body—not having left
behind anything, not having
known what was to come.

Still, I met a moonrise of
cadmium yellow, though you
have moved on (without me)—not
having known my whereabouts,
not having been lost
in the same place.

When the clouds sit on the edge of their seats
they are both far and massive,
both spectator and companion.

I was glad to find them behind tangled wires,
graphic, drawn into place.

I have no raison d’être
in front of summer linen buildings,
landscaped, painted.

And I wonder how to give in and let go,
how to be far and massive,
spectator and companion. 

surely morning will come,
and goodness will follow me.

help me remember through
glass tinted blue my life stretched out
behind me.

whisper to me through 
pink stained skies what you have
ahead of me.

surely morning will come,
and goodness will follow me.

On daily renewal: I couldn’t believe
how dark a darkness could make
a morning, I couldn’t stand it

any longer than you could. I’m afraid
I’ve done you wrong, love, I’m afraid
I am a vulture and not a crow, that

to be cursed is not to be vulnerable
but to prey upon the dead and the nearly-
dead. The gentle live long, their dust

storms haven’t pierced their skin, but I
can’t see past this rod through my eye,
it’s in my brain too.

1
Somehow, somewhere
they changed up the numbers, they
left you millions for my death—planned,
strategic, leave the world a better place.

For the brush cleaners, for the wood
painters, for the piano tuners:

2
Night bleeds into day, too—
the wrong way.
I can list the places I went
looking for you,
sunny strength, quick winds,
drenched in the night.

If I am to be filled,
then fill me.

I remember waking up to the  
reachings of tomorrow,  
I asked myself: what did you used to believe?  
Voices murmured, swimming between my ears,  
quiet, like what a mother says to her child  
to let her know she’s still there. It meant  
absolutely nothing, didn’t it—sequence of  
images, a panic forgotten—(dip yourself into  
the river, dip yourself into the river, dip yourself  
into the river).   

I remember fitting myself gently into  
the figure of a melody, barely, in C so that I  
could see its character. If time stopped  
and never started again it would be the best  
death, I thought to the voices how close they  
were, how they’ve been more than a lifelong  
friend, essential as my first language.    

I can’t believe quiet until I see it, up top a  
mountain in San Jose, how it’s thicker than  
a dream,  
a key I can finally comprehend. I loved to be  
pushed backward, old comfort in questions  
that might tear the veil of mystery, of mornings,  
of sickness.    

I remember sinking and half-lidded wondering  
about the lawn path I needed to  
trace, the buckets and wheels of water  
that for once turned with me,  
I was so glad. I saw everyone for one last time  
before picking up and moving on. A dead   
bishop cannot be out to get me. The  
murmurings always continued.    

I remember not waking up.  

I have become very secretive  
again;  
  
I can see my ribs  
again;   
  
I had a dream about a bees nest and  
ladybug bees;  

A dance show that made me bleed  
as if I had been bitten;  
  
A three hour art class everyone loved after the  
show;  
  
Time trudges along,    
I fall down like a boot dragged through the  
mud;  
On a concrete day,  
where the weather can’t sit still.  
  
I was swallowed by the hotel bed.  
What remains to be already drained down the  
shower, my inside loose with the very rest;  
As thirteen year old Jayme Closs is found alive!,
so am I. 

Give me your old, your weary, your tired, tired  
eyes; give me your boundary, your battle, your   
purchased, ticketed demise; and her wonders,  
her worries, her hurried, infected ways 
won't sink down, and tumble, 
and all go to waste. 

love,
suzanne.

spring & summer, 2019