People Die


In Skowhegan people die.
In Brooklyn people die.
In Altoona and Galesburg and Osawatomie,
in Seminole and Shamrock,
in Santa Rosa, and Snowflake, and Overton,
and Portersville, and Fresno people die.
They just drop off of census lists
and fall out of phone books
forever. Written into diaries and out of wills
their lives evaporate into the sky
and are inhaled by children
playing tag in a neighbor’s driveway.
It was in Pico Rivera that you happened to die
Jason, just this past weekend in fact,
while I vacationed in Ventura
and soldiers scrambled for peace
through Kuwaiti sands
and Good Morning Vietnam finally made its debut
on network TV.

Dearest grandpa, great aunt, grammar school pal,
brother, daddy, girlfriend I lost,
bud: you were none of these to me Jason
and still I’m tumbling into my liquor-store Leathe,
hoping its sharp and watery wet is spirited
by agents of forgetfulness
enough.
                                             Wait though.

                           Wait
and tell me first,
if there’s time
enough still to say –
what was it like?
Was death as tedious as the school-day
so often seemed to you?
Did you think of me at all
now that I’ll be thinking of you forever?
Did you hear the screaming after the bullets' impact, feel
anguish, choke on salty welling eruptions of yourself? Did you
feel sick and thankful for tomorrow’s diminishing importance? Were you more
enraged or embarrassed than you ever were before? Did the people who shot you know
your name? Will the people who bury you
know theirs? Can you maybe just
tell me

… no,
no ghost.
Don’t speak with Jason’s voice;
don’t answer stupid questions like these.
They’re best left puzzles after all -

all together they make something,
some kind of slot and slide mind-bender
all locked up inside itself,
which in its way is
perfect –
held together by the taught
obscurity of answers
that have no room for me.