Spring Sonnet
“Our dead are more alive than their living,”
I said to my friend & might’ve meant it.
Meanwhile the maple blooms & the marriage
withers. Goes quiet. I stare at the news
of the dead, of the blood & the flour.
I say, “lost love,” but I mean history.
I don’t know what I mean by “more alive.”
I weep in the car, the bathroom, the bed.
I’m thinking of the violence of language.
“Settle:” lovers use words to escape fear,
to stay. Oppressors use words to possess.
I think I’m trying to understand life.
No. I’m trying to understand endings.
It’s almost April again. What’s almost?
It’s almost April again. What’s almost
no? I’m trying to understand endings,
I think. I’m trying to understand life.
To stay. Oppressors use words to possess:
“settle.” Lovers use words to escape fear.
I’m thinking of the violence of language.
I weep in the car, the bathroom, the bed.
I don’t know what I mean by “more.” “Alive,”
I say, “lost,” “love.” But I mean “history
of the dead, of the blood.” & the flower
withers. Goes quiet. I stare at the news.
Meanwhile, the maple blooms. & the marriage?
I said to my friend & might’ve meant it:
“Our dead are more alive than their living.”
***
Author photograph courtesy of Zeina Hashem Beck
