Tracy K. Smith

Weightless, unhinged,

Eons from even our own moon, we’ll drift

In the haze of space, which will be, once

And for all, scrutable and safe.

I didn’t want to wait on my knees

In a room made quiet by waiting.

A room where we’d listen for the rise

Of breath, the burble in his throat.

I didn’t want the orchids or the trays

Of food meant to fortify that silence,

Or to pray for him to stay or to go then

Finally toward that ecstatic light.

I didn’t want to believe

What we believe in those rooms:

That we are blessed, letting go,

Letting someone, anyone,

Drag open the drapes and heave us

Back into our blinding, bright lives.

Death was thinking what it owed him:

His ride beyond the body, its garments,