The classics lie to you: there is no romance
to death. I wake up, brush my teeth, and find out
that my friend has hung humself in a public park.
More brandy, please!, the living around me shout, then put
their sunglasses on. He adored this island, the red house
where the pool was covered in wasps and we drank wine
for lunch. We played chess with half our bodies in the water
until we got headaches from the sun. He let me win
and only laughed when I recited Dante to him:
Nature follows–as she takes her course–
the Divine Intellect and the Divine Art…
nature is not like art, he said, because it’s functional
before it is beautiful. The black, Volcanic hills
could not sway him. Neither could the gecko
falling asleep on his feet every afternoon. He is ash
in a small jar now, or that is what science says.
Here, the river has dried out, the tomato vines
fouled. Every day, the world inches closer
to ruin and still I am astonished that bones and flesh
contain the spirit, and that it can burn.
Volcanic sediment and crushed seashells
have turned the sand a tangy red, lifetimes of everything
contaminating each other. And then emptying the jar
into the clear, green water. Darling, I say to the sea,
a feeling of inadequacy rushing through me–
above us are Dante’s inscrutable stars, mocking me
for my terribly human need for connection. And below
is the coast, where the waves are just waves, taking one thing
and returning another: bottle caps, warm seagrass.
By Aria Aber