A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
He died alone, and he will be buried alone. Der Spiegal
The darkness arrived without your voice
or touch, my love, and yet I heard
your voice and felt your hand in mine.
Nothing in the end, not even death,
can loose my grip from yours.
What can I say that echoes here
and beyond? Just this:
you were always so contagious, dear,
my hazelnut, my vast,
but unlike this germ, you infected me
with a love that made me better
than well, that was a gift of bliss
I didn’t deserve.
So take these words that are not mine
but the ones you gave me
in the silence of this room
and I return.
You were there, I tell you.
You were there when I was crossing
from there to here,
and you are here as well, right now.
No absence—yours or mine—
can fill itself with itself anywhere
when two have loved
as we did love, if only for a time.
Chard deNiord’s many books include In My Unknowing (Pitt, 2020)
Copyright 2020 Chard deNiord