At the Post Office
The line is long, processional, glacial,
and the attendant a giant stone, cobalt blue
with flecks of white, I’m not so much
looking at a rock but a slab of night.
The stone asks if anything inside the package
is perishable. When I say no the stone
laughs, muted thunderclap, meaning
everything decays, not just fruit
or cut flowers, but paper, ink, the CD
I burned with music, and my friend
waiting to hear the songs, some little joy
after chemo eroded the tumor. I know flesh
is temporary, and memory a tilting barn
the elements dismantle nail by nail.
I know the stone knows a millennia of rain
and wind will even grind away
his ragged face, and all of this slow erasing
is just a prelude to when the swelling
universe burns out, goes dark, holds
nothing but black holes, the bones of stars
and planets, a vast silence. The stone
is stone-faced. The stone asks how soon
I want the package delivered. As fast
as possible, I say, then start counting the days.
aaa
aaa
~David Hernandez is a Californian who knows how to have a good time with his writing. Here’s a delightful flight of fancy based on a negotiation with a postal clerk.
Printed with permission of the American Life in Poetry Project
Joe Diamond says
We need these from time to time!
At one time or another the atoms in us were formed in stars. Then they migrated to be …..us. They will move on. Regardless of how old or young we think we are the time of our personal self awareness will not be noticed in the scheme of things. About a year ago I was asked to participate in distributing the ashes of an old friend. I played The Saints & Ode To Joy. Then we dumped his ashes into the Bay. If I had these words I would have read them.
Joe