By J.J. Tindall
Death in Chicago
God died and
I started to lie:
Little white ones, at first,
And then the compunction escalated.
Like: it wasn’t God but
My mother
Who died.
Now her voice, her being,
Has transmuted into the birch, elm and oak
Standing guard along
My borough lanes: each has become
A chorus of sparrow tongues,
Like a movie is a symphony
Of faces, with the eyes
As soloists.
Then my coffeemaker died and that’s
A calamity if not a catastrophe
Of a different order but a calamity
Nonetheless. Think of it:
Absolutely the start of an improvised new life.
My father’s voice has always been there,
More steady, more dour and so
I shall assign it
To the expressway next door.
Like a rapids of wind
And metal.
It is a fact that grief metastasizes
The instant the memorials are concluded
And everyone goes home.
Then the triggers:
Old commercials, movie dialogue, song titles,
The angle of sunlight
When the next cricket chirps.
If you’re at work you have to eat it:
At home, you let it come,
You absolutely must
Let it come.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on March 26, 2018