We've all done it,
stayed up late listening to John Coltrane
or Pink Floyd, or whatever
made us feel a little sorry for ourselves.
We've sat in our wooden chairs
in our studios or studies or kitchens
while our spouses slept in flannel sheets.
We've held a beer or candle or crucifix
and studied the delicate architecture of loss
that bastard child of memory,
prodigal and awake late in the darkness,
beating tiny fists against our hollowed guts.
We have illuminated loss with prayer
or poems, or the simple talking
to ourselves while our elbows rested
in the strong-triangle of support.
We have rehearsed old loves, odd losses
and listed them, just to hear them said,
give them form,
and carry them again: Happened loves,
jaded loves, perpetual loves,
even the loves we didn't know about
until they were gone. The specifics
we've tried to commit to: a face,
a hand gesture saying what, or
please, a voice going through our heads
as if we could fill the ghost organ
with voice and weigh it down,
ground it to the bed where it belongs.
- Scott Gallaway '00
