REQUIEM
When it’s over, you will emerge from history
as if from a lake, trauma trickling off your limbs,
a baptism gone wrong. When it’s over, the lucky ones
will restart interrupted lives while the rest stumble
down that fork in the road. You will say things like
“before” and “after” without needing explanation,
build schools in honor of lost heroes. When it’s over,
you’ll approach grocery stores with something like awe;
your grandchildren will exchange indulgent smiles
over your extravagant garden, your closets full
of beans and rice. You’ll understand your own
grandmother’s tendency to store rolls of silver dollars
in the freezer, line her top shelves with canned goods.
Ask forgiveness for your condescension when you meet
again in your dreams. When it’s over, you’ll say to someone
in crisis, At least you have your health, and pause
at that branding iron of truth. Gratitude will wait for you
like a simple cup of coffee in a café with friends.
When it’s over, you’ll walk past the burnt-out parking strip
in front of your house where the unemployed camped
in tents all winter; you’ll decide to plant giant sunflowers
and red zinnias in the black mud. When it’s over, the world
will still be divided into those who had groceries delivered,
those who delivered, and those for whom the food pantry
became a new religion. Names will become numbers,
a necessary antidote to the monster of despair.
When it’s over, you’ll have a hard time believing
it’s over, doubt the very air, a kiss on the cheek.
You will slowly unknot the rituals that kept you alive.
What you can’t unlearn, turn into ceremony. Scars
of grief will line your face like a permanent mask,
but you will also carry invisible scars no cure can touch.
When it’s over, you will want it to be over, forever.
Forgive yourself everything you did to survive. Love harder,
live deeper, put in a bigger garden. You know
it’s never going to be over, ever again.
