Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

We are lucky to hear in a poem one piece of wisdom to carry into our day. Today's poem yields so many, spoken from the protective spirit and love of a father and husband. It is a poem that is relentless in its simple truths, and thus, life-affirming at every turn.

Death Letter #2
by Sean Thomas Dougherty

I’m not sure  where  I left  it.  In the  fruit aisle  beside  the  avocadoes  and  the  kiwis. 
On   the  ledge  of  a  quarry  bank  three  decades ago.  I  lost  my  life  when  she  left 
goes  every  country  song.  When  my  dog died.  When  my  beer  ran  out.   This  life, 
as if  tied to  a  string.  The  tradition  says  it  is  not  the  maker  but  the  marionettes 
who  control the  strings.  But if you  listen you  can  hear  the  maker  simply touches 
them  now  and  then,   the  way  a  mallet  in  a  piano   will  touch  a  piano  string  and 
make  a  note,  a  vibration  sostenuto  that  shudders  the  body.  My  wife  points out, 
but if it is  us  who  hold the  strings of our  fate, what if  we  pull  them too hard,  what 
if   we   snap  them   and   lose  our  connection?    So   many   of  us  could   be  walking 
through this  life  tugging  at  the  end of a string  attached  to  nothing.  The woman I 
work   taking  care   of,   she   is  sobbing   again   when   I   arrive  for   my  shift.  I  knock 
lightly on  the  door  and  there  she  is  on  her bed  with  her large  pile  of thumbworn 
photos  of  her   family,  holding   each  one,  telling  me   who  is   in  each   photo  and 
sobbing.    Then  she   is   ok.   She   looks  up,  can  I  have  a  cigarette  she  says.  The 
simple  human truth  is we are tougher  than we  think  we are  even  when  we aren’t. 
After we  receive  a  word,  we  receive another,  a set,  or series  of words  like pieces 
to a  puzzle  we arrange.  We  send  the  words  out  into  the world  of strangers  who 
pick  up  those   words  and  place  each  one   into  a  hole  in their  body.   Each  of  us 
goes  through life  with  these  holes in  our bodies  until  the  right  words  find them. 
And then  afterwards?  What do we look like,  this  patch  of  quilted words  with arms 
and  legs?   I  cannot   say.   I’ve   never   seen  anyone   so  whole.    I’ve  never   seen  a 
person  pass  me  who wasn’t  leaking light.  You  call  me  from the  waiting room, you 
left for  the  hospital  after  I   left  for work.  I  will   be  up  all  night  watching over your 
absence.   How  many  long  nights  speaking   to  your  small   face  on  a screen?  The 
tradition  says  we  can  fool  death  by  switching  names  or  giving  our  children long 
impossible  names to   pronounce.  Hopefully,  death will  never  be able to pronounce 
Andaluzja  Akhmatova  Dougherty.  For it  is a name  made of  names  death  knows so 
well as separate people,  or perhaps  he will see himself  for the first time in her eyes. 
I need  a  haircut  he will  say  and  go  on his  way.  Did  you know  for a long time each 
night you  left me for the hospital I  shaved my head.  As if I was  heading off towards 
my  own  execution.  Come  for  me  instead,  I’d  say  to  the shadow  hovering  at the 
edge  of  my  razor.   There  are  rituals  and  routines  for  dying,  but  also  for   living.  I 
showed our  daughter  how  to sit  under  the oak tree.  I am  getting  a little  bit bored 
she says.  Don’t you hear  the birds beneath  the traffic I ask her. Suddenly she jumps 
up,  there are  so many!  They are  everywhere!  If  anything,  now she  will go through 
this life knowing she is surrounded by songs.  Whenever there is music, death stops 
to listen.  If you don’t believe me,  watch the  cat’s shadow  saunter through the yard, 
hidden by the bougainvillea.  Haven’t you  been  listening;  the  crow scolds me.  Now 
they are laughing. Caw caw,  soon we  will  eat. They are teasing the small songbirds 
and the sparrows hopping  nervously in the  tulip tree.  The  yellow finch, safe on the 
telephone  wire,  sends  off  a  high  crescendo,  the  robin  flies  away from  her  blue-
egged nest, follow me she says. All the birds have a special  song they are born with,
this warning. They are death’s troubadours. They sing  their high-pitched notes just
for his arrival. There is a kind of  silence death  cannot stand.  The darkness between 
stars  sends   a   windless   shudder   across  the   pages  suddenly  empty  of  names. 
Without life, how can there be death? In the solitude of space he comes face to face
with his oblivion.  This is why  life is so fragile  and holy to Azrael more than any other 
angel.

“Death Letter # 2” by Sean Thomas Dougherty from DEATH PREFERS THE MINOR KEYS © 2023 Sean Thomas Dougherty. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of BOA Editions.