I’m now going to dazzle myself with the pluperfect.
—Jack Ridl
And isn’t it dazzling, the notion
that an action not only began in the past,
but was finished in the past, or,
as they say in Latin, it was perfect.
Not like these leaves, that began
in the past as green flags, but now
transform into gold flame. And we all know
what happens next. No, not like
the boy who once fit in my lap
and now looks me in the eye.
Not like the dream I had for my life
that changed before it could
be achieved. What really ends?
What do our cells not remember?
Even the dead are here in this room,
on the streets, in cafes. We carry
our history with us everywhere
we go, and it wriggles out of its
perfect cage and dances through the ending,
though we thought we’d shut the curtain,
though the director has long since yelled “cut,”
though the audience has already left,
see, here it is, even now, progressive
and as present as these cut sunflowers,
spilling their pollen all over the table,
hardening their seeds into future gold.
