i.
death descends, in spite of help, in spite
of the one who would help who
is rendered insteadโon the sweaty bed, on the cold
bathroom tilesโwitness. but what is there
to see. theyโweโused to say
the soul would slip like smoke
between parted lips & rise to hover
above its fleshly vehicle, giving up gravity
for air. maybe what falls upon usโeach witless
witness, instantly aloneโis
insight, that what we cannot stop
or watch we can feel: the dead
weight of what someone beloved has discarded
into our arms. maybe what drops into the scene
is not death, but life, the weight
of what we call carrying
on.
ii.
in an uncentral park, maya lin plants
a ghost forest, atlantic white cedar from the pine barrens
killed by salt from rising seas, claimed
for art to haunt the city
with the consequences of climate change. we cut
trees down for coffins, they cradle
our remains without audible complaint. lin
installed those bare-branched cedars
amongst the leafy red oaks &
maples so we could keep their corpses
company. close your eyes. lean
first against the pulsing, textured trunks, then
the dry, twisted wood. we startle away
from the absence of sap, feel deathโs stillness settling
in. life courses. even through bark, in the most
rooted of creatures, it moves
us.
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