PART ONE
The saints
commune across the darkest line,
between the
dead and living, Christians say,
praying for
one another, neutering death,
confidently
feeling mutual power.
What power I
would gain if I could feel
that Margot,
lying in her casket--white,
surrounded by
the red familiar earth
of
Collegeville--could pray for me, as I
go on, taking
chemo, getting sick,
getting
better, watching over Kurt
as he decompensates, left and hurt.
I'll gladly pray
for her, scarcely knowing
of its use--it won't enhance her soul.
Perhaps she'll
hear how much I wish that I
had made her
happier. But what is hearing
to the dead,
quiet in their sleep?
Believers
blithely step beyond such doubt:
God, to them,
perhaps, gives hearing aids,
equipped to
overcome the silences
of graves.
(Just a joke! Is making light
of gadgets of
the Lord a blasphemy?)
I'll gladly pray
for Margot anyway.
Why not?
Perhaps from this side of the line
I'll finally
persuade her that I cared
more than she
could believe. I think she knew
I loved her so
that she could make of me
someone more
than I
could make alone;
I hope she
knew that she completed me.
Jump
forward to
PART TWO
