He Leaves Behind a Rulebook
The news: our friend is dead.
We scramble to show respect
Any way we can. We make him a saint, play
The grief game, sticking closely to the rules:
You say you’re all right, you desperately lie
Like your heart is still in place, like no one can tell.
Comes a time you have to tell
The whole world unbidden: my friend is dead.
We pick through his things, making him lie
In state, forever twenty-nine, immortal in that one respect.
Among his effects: one hand-written book of rules
For a game we both already know how to play.
She and I try it out, play
Awkwardly, remembering not to tell
My wife, her husband. These are the rules.
It’s innocent. We’re friends. He is dead.
And we are thirty or more, too old, too much self-respect
For let’s-pretend, for falling to a pretty lie.
Not meaning to, we test the lie
Of the land. Secrets hidden in play
Attract us; I trust her, I respect
Her. Intimate like only friends, we don’t tell
Any complete truth; we behave. He is dead,
And we are not ourselves. Those are the rules.
We let things slip. She rules
That this is the last game. She cannot lie
To me. Because it is wrong. Because he is dead.
This is no time at all to play
Games. She asks me if we should tell.
Yes, I say; we don’t. But the idea, I respect.
We talk like adults. We have too much respect
For each other. We have broken the rules:
Fantasies are fantasies, but we can’t tell
Them apart from the lie.
We did this for you, we say, we play
Once more. For you are dead.
My friend is dead, and in that respect
He has become perfect and we must play his game, by his rules.
We will ruin it all: we will lie together. When, I can’t tell.
We scramble to show respect
Any way we can. We make him a saint, play
The grief game, sticking closely to the rules:
You say you’re all right, you desperately lie
Like your heart is still in place, like no one can tell.
Comes a time you have to tell
The whole world unbidden: my friend is dead.
We pick through his things, making him lie
In state, forever twenty-nine, immortal in that one respect.
Among his effects: one hand-written book of rules
For a game we both already know how to play.
She and I try it out, play
Awkwardly, remembering not to tell
My wife, her husband. These are the rules.
It’s innocent. We’re friends. He is dead.
And we are thirty or more, too old, too much self-respect
For let’s-pretend, for falling to a pretty lie.
Not meaning to, we test the lie
Of the land. Secrets hidden in play
Attract us; I trust her, I respect
Her. Intimate like only friends, we don’t tell
Any complete truth; we behave. He is dead,
And we are not ourselves. Those are the rules.
We let things slip. She rules
That this is the last game. She cannot lie
To me. Because it is wrong. Because he is dead.
This is no time at all to play
Games. She asks me if we should tell.
Yes, I say; we don’t. But the idea, I respect.
We talk like adults. We have too much respect
For each other. We have broken the rules:
Fantasies are fantasies, but we can’t tell
Them apart from the lie.
We did this for you, we say, we play
Once more. For you are dead.
My friend is dead, and in that respect
He has become perfect and we must play his game, by his rules.
We will ruin it all: we will lie together. When, I can’t tell.