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Apr. 26th, 2011 07:05 amHow Language Works, by Albert Goldbarth
One night near the end, I sang his name.
Barely a moon, and nearly no stars – it was something
like giving a signature back to its ink.
I don't know why I did it: nothing
was going to change, it was never going to be a world
where a leaf or a woman's exploring hand or a carburetor
would know him, ever again. But sing his name
I did, in a voice as broken – as spidered – as paint
on a fifteenth century altar panel,
sepia and holy and starting to loosen.
It wasn't dramatic: I wasn't wandering in a storm.
Although it seemed the darkness might have been a way
the sky decided to kneel. Then I went back inside,
the chair was the same, the sloppy pile of books was the same,
and I continued to say his name, even then,
in a singsong. I might just as well have sung out
for the fourteen horses dead near here last year
when the stables caught fire – two escaped
their stalls and panicked down the road
with jockeys of flame on their backs. Or for
the worms in their carcasses. For any of us.
But it was his name that I sang, his name
that carried the others – his name, now,
was the horse. His name was the altar panel
in which we all took our stilted positions.
And frankly. . .why is this special?
It isn't. "Chair."
"Storm." "Leaf." "Books." "Woman's hand."
Every word is an elegy
– at the least, a commemoration.
One night near the end, I sang his name.
Barely a moon, and nearly no stars – it was something
like giving a signature back to its ink.
I don't know why I did it: nothing
was going to change, it was never going to be a world
where a leaf or a woman's exploring hand or a carburetor
would know him, ever again. But sing his name
I did, in a voice as broken – as spidered – as paint
on a fifteenth century altar panel,
sepia and holy and starting to loosen.
It wasn't dramatic: I wasn't wandering in a storm.
Although it seemed the darkness might have been a way
the sky decided to kneel. Then I went back inside,
the chair was the same, the sloppy pile of books was the same,
and I continued to say his name, even then,
in a singsong. I might just as well have sung out
for the fourteen horses dead near here last year
when the stables caught fire – two escaped
their stalls and panicked down the road
with jockeys of flame on their backs. Or for
the worms in their carcasses. For any of us.
But it was his name that I sang, his name
that carried the others – his name, now,
was the horse. His name was the altar panel
in which we all took our stilted positions.
And frankly. . .why is this special?
It isn't. "Chair."
"Storm." "Leaf." "Books." "Woman's hand."
Every word is an elegy
– at the least, a commemoration.
