Bright Lament

Here where the sun washes
The old furniture white and gold,
Where petals crepe and sink like eyelids,
And in the corner the copper bowl
Is decorative that once was used
By able hands in making bread
And sweets; here in the half-life
Of morning, I read that death
Undid another come undone,
A girl who in the note she left said
I am already tired. Already tired
And twelve years old and gone.

What’s here? Some things we think
We earned and some things left us,
The light that’s given whether
Or not we want it, whether or not
It’s appropriate, and touches things
That do not ask to gleam. No thing
Can hold a human hurt, the heart
Endures or doesn’t. One wants
To offer something, but is tired.
In another room, thank God,
Good shades, and the rumpled bed
Still open, still unmade.

by Maggie Dietz

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Last updated: October 21, 2005