Poem Beginning and Ending With a Constellation
of cells in his brain which turned out to be cancer.
Not the constellation. This is not how the end begins—
it begins long before this, back at the beginning.
This is just the first time it appears fully formed
on the horizon, like the moon rising, or some other
celestial being being its celestial self. The horizon
changes nothing. It draws a line and everything
on this side is real because we can see it,
and everything on the other side is a mystery,
even though we all know it’s coming.
He lived just long enough to plan his own memorial—
who would sing and say what and in what order,
which photographs would be displayed on the table
in the temple lobby. And then he was gone,
and we all sat where he’d planned for us to sit,
on this side of the horizon. Later we stood
in the cemetery, our umbrellas preventing
the rain water and the salt water from mixing.
From above, we were clusters of black dots
surrounding an even blacker hole.