"Coming From, Going To," by Dean Young
Coming From, Going To
Dean Young
A whole lifetime in the middle, no wonder
we crave and fear beginnings and ends.
We want to see Highway 80 vanish
into the Pacific waves, Tolstoy as a baby
trying to hold a pencil. And this endless mess
of photos, could that really be Grandfather
dressed like a little girl, Mother with flowers
in her hair? The body weighed after death,
what’s missing? For a price the ashes
can be pressed into a crystal but
go back to the old neighborhood
and everything’s been taken apart,
reassembled wrong, smaller trees, higher
fence around the graveyard where on a dare
you searched for a stone with your own name.
Either the universe keeps going or collapses
closed but for his whole life a man
can be 16 or 49 or 55 or 23
yet he knows he’s a volcano.
And every day a woman flagging traffic
knows she has only a couple hours in the sky
rivaling the morning star. A melon slips
from the hands and explodes like laughter,
red, sweet, full of dark seeds.
Behind you a whisper, in front a windy blur.
Soon that face just below the water
will be your own.
From Ploughshares.
Dean Young
A whole lifetime in the middle, no wonder
we crave and fear beginnings and ends.
We want to see Highway 80 vanish
into the Pacific waves, Tolstoy as a baby
trying to hold a pencil. And this endless mess
of photos, could that really be Grandfather
dressed like a little girl, Mother with flowers
in her hair? The body weighed after death,
what’s missing? For a price the ashes
can be pressed into a crystal but
go back to the old neighborhood
and everything’s been taken apart,
reassembled wrong, smaller trees, higher
fence around the graveyard where on a dare
you searched for a stone with your own name.
Either the universe keeps going or collapses
closed but for his whole life a man
can be 16 or 49 or 55 or 23
yet he knows he’s a volcano.
And every day a woman flagging traffic
knows she has only a couple hours in the sky
rivaling the morning star. A melon slips
from the hands and explodes like laughter,
red, sweet, full of dark seeds.
Behind you a whisper, in front a windy blur.
Soon that face just below the water
will be your own.
From Ploughshares.