To become wise, a person must commit many mistakes

and then fly into the sun.

Light does not cleanse, though its invisible whiteness

seems as if it could leech out impurities.

By the Ganges women with stones wash their saris

and then drape them across the rocks to dry,

gossamer swathes of indigo, fuchsia, amber and emerald

with scattered gold stars twinkle

amid the fields of pure color as the water runs

from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal.

White saris for widows hide within their solemn threads

the full spectrum of colors, a riot of reds and violet

unseen in the cloth of mourning — Sir Isaac Newton

discovered this with a prism.

Although you, dear reader, must forgive me because I speak

more about light, than about cloth.

What would we see if I held a prism up to my character?

Or yours?

I like men with the names of angels,

one in particular played the cello and especially liked

the concertos of Boccherini, but I remember most his sadness,

he was infinitely patient with his sadness.

This man, Gabriel, has come to serve as a mirror,

I do not need to reread his letters to remember

the kind of young woman I used to be —  some things change

very slowly until one day they become reliable.

The weight bearing skeleton holds us together,

the lacrimal bone and its delicacy

near the well of tears, the scapulae where wings would emerge,

if we could fly, the mandible that shatters

under the force of fists — my character as old as my bones,

I will never stand by a wall to face a barrage of stones.

                                     for Andy Blank, 1957-2010

You are the rate limiting step,

we need you to make us complete.

But you’re so slow, a catalyst might be required.

Maybe a séance or hypnotism.

The reaction can only go as fast

as you hand over little pieces

of yourself.

There was that girl with the flower tattoo

who took you over the moon?

We all stood on the roof to find you.

When you followed the dog

into the sea filled with stingray,

we stood there with lemons.

We have not lost track or hope —

we can do it like dogs, smell your track.

Wherever it goes we promise to follow.

But why does your pillow smell like your ear?

Why do these two guys wrap you in sheets?

I will personally put a stop to all of this.

I dare them to take you away.

Warning, this poem will not have the word “love.”

Your empty chair undoes us

when it’s time to carve,

though we never start with a blessing.

So, this is a formal invitation (demand)

to return and take your place. 

We find it hard to speak

of you, someone always gets sucked

down by the trap door.

But we are not afraid of ghosts.