Tracy K. Smith

I didn’t want to wait on my knees

In a room made quiet by waiting.

A room where we’d listen for the rise

Of breath, the burble in his throat.

I didn’t want the orchids or the trays

Of food meant to fortify that silence,

Or to pray for him to stay or to go then

Finally toward that ecstatic light.

I didn’t want to believe

What we believe in those rooms:

That we are blessed, letting go,

Letting someone, anyone,

Drag open the drapes and heave us

Back into our blinding, bright lives.

Death was thinking what it owed him:

His ride beyond the body, its garments,

IT & CO.
We are a part of It. Not guests.

Is It us, or what contains us?

How can It be anything but an idea,

Something teetering on the spine

Of the number i? It is elegant

But coy. It avoids the blunt ends

Of our fingers as we point. We

Have gone looking for It everywhere:

In Bibles and bandwidth, blooming

Like a wound from the ocean floor.

Still, It resists the matter of false vs. real.

Unconvinced by our zeal, It is un-

Appeasable. It is like some novels:

Vast and unreadable.