What the Wind Said to Me When
I Awoke from Another Nightmare in
Which My Father Had Died, Alone
What is the meaning of kindness?
Speak and listen to others, from now on,
as if they had recently died.
At the core the seen and unseen worlds are one.
—Franz Wright, “Solution”
I was there with him in the darkness
of your dream, was his breath, was the frayed
scarf of it, the shivering white dust of it,
was the moist cobweb across his mouth,
was the last vapor of life curled into a whistled
sound, a word repeated—something like face
and soul, or fast and silly, like fist hitting
soil, like fish thrashing in the jaws of seal--
a name, a name. Yours. You
should have been there too, with me,
strumming the black etchings of his face, his palms,
letting your fingertips quell the scorch of skin,
freeing me to braid my howling immateriality
into the thready blare of the trumpet,
to become the bridge between worlds,
become the emblazoned quiver of horizon
as the sun rises to no chorus.
*
In the village, where I found
your father
lying in bed, his head turned toward Mecca,
his hands folded across his belly,
posing already
for the grave. He said sing.
But the songbird beneath his window refused.
Silence reigned, broken by rain,
the rumble of electric sky.
The future’s grim shadow cast itself into the dream,
falling across his body like the gnarled limb
of an ancient tree.
Other winds blew. Rain, so much rain.
*
Perhaps, then, it was pity
which moved me to kiss his forehead
and massage away
the swelling of his splintered feet,
wail sweetly in his ears
to keep the crush of songlessness at bay
as the waters rose around him--
to pretend that I was you
as the current tore him away from this world,
from me.
*
Without you, songbird: woodswallow, magpie
bulbul, goldfinch, oriole, crow,
whatever--
without his oldest, the only child privy
to the torture of his secret griefs,
the way his kin stole the most delicious pulp of his life,
leaving only the rinds,
as glorious and golden as rinds can be,
the way he offered up even these
nothings
when they came back and he had no more to give,
leaving his children,
their mother,
wondering at their own share,
the way he loved most the ones who caused him
the most suffering,
alone,
he bit his lip until the taste of blood
reminded him
of your absence, because you had wounded him
by demanding he be a father,
nothing else.
He hated that you took pride
in your violence.
*
When he asked me, the wind, what my name was,
I gave yours.
What right did I have to deny
a dying man’s wish
when to fulfill it would give me, the nothingness
that I am, a father?
By now blind, he believed I was you
when I folded myself at his feet,
called him Daddy, and wept
as I expanded like a tempest to fill the room,
to obliterate the world, as only a man’s son can.
Then he smiled, knowingly, saying into me,
as he passed on,
Yes,
yes,
yes
—to what,
I cannot say, but perhaps you,
awake now, with your ill father still
alive, and material,
already know the answer, and perhaps
you can mouth it in song or sigh,
in prayer or embrace, in caw
or coo.
*
I am,
if not you, then your dearest friend,
your brother, burning
to carry your voice, your supplication,
every note and knot of it,
down this mountain,
across the flooded valley,
through fields of wheat and corn,
through an endless pummel
of rain, across the great plains
of silence and time, beyond the shores
of language, beyond the void
from which every wind is born, some as sighs,
some as swells, as storms,
as silence.
I am
a wind born of such silence, and that man
with empty hands,
he is my father now.
Whatever you can give,
while you still have time left
in which to give,
give.
First published in Prairie Schooner, Fall 2014; recipient of the journal's 2014 Edward Stanley Award
I Awoke from Another Nightmare in
Which My Father Had Died, Alone
What is the meaning of kindness?
Speak and listen to others, from now on,
as if they had recently died.
At the core the seen and unseen worlds are one.
—Franz Wright, “Solution”
I was there with him in the darkness
of your dream, was his breath, was the frayed
scarf of it, the shivering white dust of it,
was the moist cobweb across his mouth,
was the last vapor of life curled into a whistled
sound, a word repeated—something like face
and soul, or fast and silly, like fist hitting
soil, like fish thrashing in the jaws of seal--
a name, a name. Yours. You
should have been there too, with me,
strumming the black etchings of his face, his palms,
letting your fingertips quell the scorch of skin,
freeing me to braid my howling immateriality
into the thready blare of the trumpet,
to become the bridge between worlds,
become the emblazoned quiver of horizon
as the sun rises to no chorus.
*
In the village, where I found
your father
lying in bed, his head turned toward Mecca,
his hands folded across his belly,
posing already
for the grave. He said sing.
But the songbird beneath his window refused.
Silence reigned, broken by rain,
the rumble of electric sky.
The future’s grim shadow cast itself into the dream,
falling across his body like the gnarled limb
of an ancient tree.
Other winds blew. Rain, so much rain.
*
Perhaps, then, it was pity
which moved me to kiss his forehead
and massage away
the swelling of his splintered feet,
wail sweetly in his ears
to keep the crush of songlessness at bay
as the waters rose around him--
to pretend that I was you
as the current tore him away from this world,
from me.
*
Without you, songbird: woodswallow, magpie
bulbul, goldfinch, oriole, crow,
whatever--
without his oldest, the only child privy
to the torture of his secret griefs,
the way his kin stole the most delicious pulp of his life,
leaving only the rinds,
as glorious and golden as rinds can be,
the way he offered up even these
nothings
when they came back and he had no more to give,
leaving his children,
their mother,
wondering at their own share,
the way he loved most the ones who caused him
the most suffering,
alone,
he bit his lip until the taste of blood
reminded him
of your absence, because you had wounded him
by demanding he be a father,
nothing else.
He hated that you took pride
in your violence.
*
When he asked me, the wind, what my name was,
I gave yours.
What right did I have to deny
a dying man’s wish
when to fulfill it would give me, the nothingness
that I am, a father?
By now blind, he believed I was you
when I folded myself at his feet,
called him Daddy, and wept
as I expanded like a tempest to fill the room,
to obliterate the world, as only a man’s son can.
Then he smiled, knowingly, saying into me,
as he passed on,
Yes,
yes,
yes
—to what,
I cannot say, but perhaps you,
awake now, with your ill father still
alive, and material,
already know the answer, and perhaps
you can mouth it in song or sigh,
in prayer or embrace, in caw
or coo.
*
I am,
if not you, then your dearest friend,
your brother, burning
to carry your voice, your supplication,
every note and knot of it,
down this mountain,
across the flooded valley,
through fields of wheat and corn,
through an endless pummel
of rain, across the great plains
of silence and time, beyond the shores
of language, beyond the void
from which every wind is born, some as sighs,
some as swells, as storms,
as silence.
I am
a wind born of such silence, and that man
with empty hands,
he is my father now.
Whatever you can give,
while you still have time left
in which to give,
give.
First published in Prairie Schooner, Fall 2014; recipient of the journal's 2014 Edward Stanley Award