Lucie Brock Broido (May 22, 1956 – March 6, 2018)
If my own voice falters, tell them hubris was my way of adoring you.
The hollow of the hulk of you, so feverish in life, cut open,
Reveals ten thousand rags of music in your thoracic cavity.
The hands are received bagged and examination reveals no injury.
Winter then, the body is cold to the touch, unplunderable,
Kept in its drawer of old-world harrowing.
Teeth in fair repair. Will you be buried where; nowhere.
Your mouth a globe of gauze and glossolalia.
And opening, most delft of blue, Your heart was a mess—
A mob of hoofprints where the skittish colts first learned to stand,
Catching on to their agility, a shock of freedom, wild-maned.
The eyes have hazel irides and the conjunctivae are pale,
With hemorrhaging. One lung, smaller, congested with rose smoke.
The other, filled with a swarm of massive sentimentia. I adore you more.
The wingspan of your voice, whole gorgeous flock of harriers,
Cannot be taken down. You would like it now, this snow, this hour.
Your visitation here tonight not altogether unexpected.
The night-laborers, immigrants all, assemble here, aching for to speaking, Longing for to work.