Poem for Bernard

“It is in the power of every hand to destroy us, and we are beholden unto everyone we meet, he doth not kill us.” —Sir Thomas Browne

We’re down here in the basement

dodging bombs. As our loves

freckle with age we must adore

them more ferociously. Come winter

you kick back and ready your weapons

for spring. My next task was to get well.

Five million years ago, there were different

terrors. Saber toothed fears. Edgar Allen Poe

was terrified of being buried alive. Fear

is a civilising influence. It keeps us in line.

Fear of bacteria. Of our own murderous

kind. Of aliens superior to us in every

way who’ll arrive any moment

and sensibly decide to clean house.

A terrible cry arises from the thick

of things. My begging bowl

runneth over. Heaven has been

relocated and we’re not telling you

where. Not even a hint. I don’t love

you anymore. What might it mean

to die a worthy death

and how much should one brood

about that ahead of time?

I was just trying to get back

to the boat alive. Let us lurch forward

or hellward. What an adorable form

of anarchy when the body outwits us.

I am a heretic in their eyes, so they

will kill us both and murder your children

if they find our hiding place. Despite

everything, I awoke full of praise

for you, as I do each morning.

Coughing constantly, I rinsed

my hands and ate some seeded crackers.

I thought about your face and prayed.

Copyright Credit: “Poem for Bernard" from Ghost Girl by Amy Gerstler,copyright © 2004 by Amy Gerstler. Used by permission of Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved

Source: Ghost Girl (2004)