It would have been helpful
had someone taken the time
to fasten to your beam some
device for hanging all those
matters from our living that
have erected your dying. We
need some firmer appliance:
a place to sling our sorrows,
some fixture for our failures.
Perhaps a hook, likely many,
all affixed to your towering
tree. Numerous fresh nails,
not so much for holding you
fast, as for hanging near you
all those portions of us now
dying; creation, languishing.
Here we shall hang, not hats,
but hearts—broken, bruised.
A hook for worries, for fierce
regrets, several for those few
sins both despised—desired.
One for our frustration over
this globe gone mad. One for
the pain of missed goodbyes.
We need our space to dangle
what we’ve done; some place
to hang a matter still undone.
Hooks for boredom, jealousy,
foolishness, and the vanity of
wasted time. Let us crowd
your cross with our stubborn
indignity, hanging on to your
hellish descent
until we all
with you
arise
