For all the history of grief
an empty doorway and a maple leaf.
—Archibald MacLeish
I wanted to start this story
at the end, but couldn’t think
of any stories I believe are truly over.
Certainly not the one about you
and me and our lilies, the way they
bloomed beyond their time, how
even long after they dropped their petals
they still manage to plant themselves
in my thoughts every week. And bloom again.
The end. Well, there’s just nothing
more to say after those two words,
and nothing else to listen to.
I don’t know about you, but I love
a cliffhanger in every story except my own,
love the way my stomach
turns inside out while I wonder what
happens next. Will he forgive her?
Will her body open again like day lilies,
over and over? Our books are written
in unreadable ink. And oh, this longing
for completion, this longing to know.
Any garden could tell you that even after
the flowers die there’s the long slow plot of rotting,
the unhurried scenes of worms and grubs,
and even if the flowers are later replaced
by weeds, well the story itself doesn’t care
where it goes. Only the hero wants to know
that everything will be okay. But the story
it just keeps rising from the loam
of any old once upon a time.