AFTER THE WAKE
–for Jo
Now that you have crossed that river
now that we have sung you
to the other side
have taken leave
of your service and feast
your ashes
your house
Now that it is all behind us
and you far beyond us
what do we have
but your words
planted in the bygone dirt of your days
words which are still, by Dog,
climbing the trellis
of this unparalleled
(yes, I know) moment
and blooming like the Dickens
and the Welty bloom
against the always-turning pages
of their skies
Oh, Jo, I am trying to say
the unsayable again
because, after all, it’s my
rich and unpaying job—
same one you showed up for
at the door of every blessed day
Lift the lid on the brain-pot
stir up the heart-fire
and see what’s cooking
I realize I’ve traipsed in
from garden to kitchen
wordwise, but so did you,
Bear following close
Unceasingly at your wake
that old black dog
searched for you
among mourners eating
cheese dip in your kitchen-
dining-living-dying room,
playing ukeleles and stand-up bass
by the firepit in your yard,
talking and singing
their hearts out. Bear
beseeched each guest
to be you or, failing that,
to bring you or, failing
that, to take her somehow
to you. She could not rest.
We had each other—
distraction, consolation,
Spirit-drinking and conjuring.
No one wanted to leave
and take your absence
with them. But we did, Jo,
saying goodbye to your dying
in that red-spread bed, in that
cinder-block nest with your
Day-of-the-Dead walker
foursquare in the corner,
with your walking stick/
mage’s staff collection hung
like the rungs of a ladder
on the wall
Now I want to make
a poetic finish
saying how at last
your ever-reaching spirit
has climbed another ladder
breathless
to the next world
but you say, “That’s bullshit,
George. It’s pretty, and pretty
ain’t what it took to get me
out of my body, out of
that house, to let go
all that held me. Say
what I said: we are
by design supposed
to let go the hard stuff
and live in love.”
–George Ella Lyon
