I shall not murder the mankind of her going
“I shall not murder the mankind of her going with a grave truth” – Dylan Thomas
and that’s the rub, aye, isn’t it, a quick blowaway and then gone, and the human mind with its ten trillion neurons, angel hair wires, seeks to make sense of it all. My uncle sits across from me, bone-thin and dying like a Auschwitz refugee — here it comes, the big reveal, where Daddy explains about the time he killed a kitty cat — I’m watching the Love Song for Bobby Long — so convinced of my own grand destiny —
the stupid story of a stolen love // the mistakes we make // the things we leave // lost // lost child // the fatal sinking mistake // the things you can’t take back // broken little body on the side of the road //
“Leave, leave and never come back.” // “I want a better man, Bobby” //
New stories. New beginnings. The things I’ve done — the things I’ve not done — no regrets, no mistakes, no nothings — read too many damn books, too many damn poems, striving pointing against the constraints of mortality — all that there is between me and my uncle is love, an eternal love that has been sanctified by his passing — a part of me rests in the grave, beyond the edge of the world, and that is ok, I realize, that sanctifies me, and bury my body at the foot of a tree and in the summer go sit beneath the shade and tell stories about me and let that be my monument — the love the love and the leaving — and take joy in what there was and comfort in my uncle’s eternal endless rest.