When Language Breaks
The most genuine tree fills up with you
and your larvae. The narrowest street,
the one full of gossip, inhabits you.
Water pronounces your name
when it suffuses our hands
with pure beauty.
You draw your face
on the most horrible dry winter leaf
and I still recognize you.
Although the world surrenders to us all
it's impossible to reach you.
Right now, no one’s home.
Only you. And you're howling
like a wounded wolf.
A part of me, of your light,
left with to the last name
that names us. The other part,
the smallest, disappeared with your voice.
I mean, your voice was the language
of everyday things when you lived.
Now language is the skin
of the world. That's why
we always baptize Death
That night I talked to my father
who sat at the table. I said
what Sharon Olds never could ::
The photograph I wanted to find
in the family album ::
Brothers and sisters together.
My parents, euphoric couple in love,
pure honest love. Everyone
on luminous, imported paper.
But the impossible falters again
on these pages :: Because beauty,
father, beauty does not sleep
with the living.