Lose something every day. —Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art”
Strangely, I did not misplace my keys
today, nor did I lose my wallet, though
I often do. But I did lose each passing
hour, a whole day sloped its raffish way
into the doors of now. And is it loss
when I recall the crooked aspen trunks,
how shyly they entwined beside the road?
And is it loss, the berry’s red still clinging
like my red, red thoughts? The darkling sky
is darkling as it will. But dear Ms. Bishop,
I can feel how I am losing who
I thought I was—the glistered dross of self.
I cannot lose it fast enough, but that’s
not how it works. Slow surrender, slow
the letting go. See, my name still sticks.
And I still think it’s me that’s walking up
the river road beside the leafless willows.
Too much left of me, so as you say
I’ll practice losing something every day.
This Bishop poem is one of my favorites, and you have given it a new sort of life in this meditation on the poem. Beautiful language here, the darkling sky, the crooked aspen, the raffish way. Here’s the part for me that rallies for such a fine, fine ending:
“… But dear Ms. Bishop,
I can feel how I am losing who
I thought I was—the glistered dross of self.
I cannot lose it fast enough, but that’s
not how it works
I love the turn toward not being able to lose it fast enough, such an unexpected but welcome shift in the story of loss.