23 May 1999




angela giroux


Up up up up here
up there
where there is no music
no bird
no sea
just clear, stinging blue
you are still as alone as before.
Now it settles over you like some
quiet calm
a peace accepted simply because
you're tired of fighting it.
And so now you think you're
learning a new art
a new way to write,
to sing, to paint and create,
all with open hands and silence.
The art of letting go, you say.
Making with every stroke, every
note, every child a statement:
the past is the past.
What's been done is simply that.
Well, almost.
If that were true, you wouldn't
have those nightmares.
You know, with the crazed beasts
and henchmen stalking you each
and every night.
It's the same, you see, the way
his kiss haunts you like
Van Gogh: a tragedy, a beauty
that you can't quite resist.
The same with the tears for the
aunt, the grandfather, the hope
for happiness that doesn't quite materialize.
Materialize the way the liquor,
the blurred men, the cruel games--
of course, these are all too real.
Too real like the blue, oppressively
so, impossible to sidestep.
In this blue,
you are still as alone as before.