Death


	ERIC GREEN
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DEATH

Tragedy has no sense of justice
And we must know this again and again
As the bastards continue untouched
And the kind and the loyal are
Cut like golden wheat
Before a merciless scythe.

Oh for our minds and hearts to witness this.

Fate this blade that no shield may stay,
That will always show death the open door.
And so we have our great religions,
And so we have our melancholic songs,
And so we have our drink,
And so we have the arms of others,
Meager salve for what will not heal.

My father at 56 died at JFK in New York,
The one place he always said to hate most.
His heart stopping there in the airport,
Did he cry out at the fucking irony?
At the sadness of dying among strangers.
And the young glib doctor
Who couldn't meet my eyes,
Who kept backing away from me,
I there to claim my father's body.
(He wanted to go skiing that Friday,
My father brought in still breathing.
He drove north as my father's body cooled
Not notifying my mother for three days
As we waited in fear, as he skied,
Just miles from my mother's house.)
Why must tragedy be so muddled?

And these random phone calls that come
While the beer neon is bright
And the Friday drinking has begun.
These phone calls that shatter
Like a shotgun blast to glass.
And now my cousin in a hospital,
Now his wife is dead . . .

So we ask for details,
Tabulate our losses,
Determine our own pain,
When all we need is why.

But we say no, they can't be gone,
Look we have all these memories,
Look, please look at the memories,
We must try not to let them erode,
These pathetic scribbles in sand
Before this steady, relentless tide.
Or we can sing for them our songs,
Or to bring back in our stories,
Or to meet them in our dreams,
Or to lift our glasses high
That damn dampness coming to our eyes,
Or to make them these few poems
For what else can I do?