Michael Hettich
I’ve caught myself forgetting common words,
blanking on the title of a book I’ve just read
or the movie we saw last week–even
while I’m lauding its subtle insights,
its moving performances. I’ve noticed that the more
I worry about these sudden moments of blankness,
these linguistic blind spots, the more often they seem
to visit me. So I think of other things,
or concentrate on synonyms. It’s a kind of poetry,
I guess, a lyric of loss: Lately
I’ve learned that when a cancer patient
is dosed with radiation, she’s not filled with light,
though she’s hoping to carry the light of her life
a bit longer than she would do otherwise:
The light we can’t see kills what will kill her
eventually, or stuns it for a while.
And lately when I sit outside, the squirrels
and chipmunks approach me; the birds seem to think
I’m carrying seed in my hair. They land
in the branches that shade me and mutter to each other,
fly down to hover over my head.
When they realize I’m alive, they flutter off to peck
at the ground; then up into the trees.
It’s a bit like being vividly invisible
again, like the wind just before it starts
to move but holds still, as if waiting.