It is a world of words to the end of it . . .
—Wallace Stevens
In eulogies, children bemoan what they wish
they’d said to parents, before loss
left them, like parrots, with vocabularies
that couldn’t contain enough words to know
what to say to the mayor who wants to
write the proclamation that makes it all
come out right in the end. The local
butcher—despite the persistent odor of
blood and a murmur over his sore left shoulder
speaking of the ecstasy of cutting flesh
loose from bone and serving it up, wrapped
perfect in white paper—doesn’t deal
in pain, a dull memory by the time
he sees the slabs of meat. Blood on his hands
is easy enough to remove; he goes home
to the hairdresser and rubs her warm scalp
all night with immaculate hands and doesn’t
confuse that warm, grayish flesh for anything
he might be asked to cut into chops or loins.
Parrots squawk through her dreams, perfect
alignments of feathers trying to sign her
name in dark air. Often, the mayor
shows up, naked, a fiery parrot
perched on his left shoulder that whispers
sweet nothings while digging into the skin
it clings to. She hangs on every word
this naked parrot of a man says. You are
all the world needs, the parrot chants,
and the hairdresser wants to ruffle up
those tail feathers like no one’s business.
Down at the end of this cul-de-sac,
where the one street sign’s been missing
for years, the fence around the cemetery
rusts the color of what the dead say
must be flowers. Only something living
and fragrant could form such brilliance,
they say. Loss, it has no such passion.
Words, they say, can’t contain the sorrow
memory makes room for under the earth.
Children often make out the dead moving
through bedrooms at night, trying to touch
anything. The rooms were theirs, the past
not a place but the loss of all places.
In a corner office down some dim hall
in some musty, crumbling city building,
the Registry of Everything Lost is kept
up to date by a shriveled employee
not paid in years. His spectacles, scratched
with what could be ancient signatures,
blur the words, but his trembling hand is
sure what it writes down. It’s not like he has to
remember any of this. Is forgetting
what’s been lost another loss, or is it more
like a double negative, so that amnesia
is a kind of restoration? The mayor
declares a Day of Forgetting, makes it
official, a way to celebrate what’s been
lost. Concession stands line Main Street,
one good hawker each, and games are set up
despite the threats of weather. Parrots
entertain passersby with impressions of
well-known city officials blurting out
words they’d never utter. Will everyone
join in the feverish celebration, or will they
just go about business as usual and wonder
what all the banners are for and where
that incessant music is coming from?
May children romp through the park
with plastic horns to their lips and sparklers
burning in their small fists, celebrating
everything their parents have forgotten.
May the dead cheer the sputtering bits of light
riding tiny hands from one end of one world
to another. May the light, dimming,
they say, be sacred, the squawking of parrots
a vespers drifting down over our bodies.