Sometimes the weight of the pen is too much
to pick up, a rusted rail embedded in the ground,
so you keep going, walking, looking and listening
for words to lift those bodies buried in your chest
as if language can work like a pick and shovel,
make sense of the hole and hard-pan in your throat,
somehow levitate and turn this husk of existence
under light like a jeweler examines stones
before transforming them into glittering beauty—
you want that untold story we’ll never hear.
As you fold your hands, don’t bow your head,
look up, out, through, into . . . the only rules
you follow you break . . . sadly we make no
mistakes, we all learn what we need to know, so
when that bullet flash ends your sky light and
beating heart, all guitars return to their cases,
no weeping tomorrows will be heard, merely
the phantom hum of your amp left on and no
forgetting of the questions, the whys—those who
had no idea knew for certain your destination.
Like all who labor to ignore the night, go lightly
across this cemetery—look to the sun burning bright.
—for Craig and Melissa
Mark Gibbons, October 2018