Not because there was nothing to say, or we
didn't want to — we just stopped speaking
entirely, but like making a gift of it: Here;
for you. Saturday birds picked the sidewalk's
reminders of Friday night's losses, what got left
behind. I've been mistaken about more than, despite
memory, I had thought was possible... I keep
making my way through the so-called forests of the so-
called dead, I whistle their branches into rivers
elsewhere, they tell the usual lies that water, lately
can hardly wait to begin singing about: love as
rescue, rescue as to have been at last set free. If
that's how it always seems anyway, so what,
that it did? When I whistle again — not so hard
this time, more softly — each lie blows out, then
away: lit candles; dust. — I take everything back.
For Long to Hold
Carl Phillips
Carl Phillips is the author of sixteen books of poetry, most recently Then the War: And Selected Poems 2007–2020, which won the 2023 Pulitzer Prize. A new book of poems, Scattered Snows, to the North, will be out in the early fall of 2024. He teaches at Washington University in St. Louis.
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