Job

Earlier this year, I put together a book of poems on Blurb and had two copies printed: one for my man S. and one for my sister. Even though the idea of the book was to create a personal gift for a specific occasion (our Paper Anniversary), I got a real rush out of seeing my words in print. To publish what you write on the internet is one thing. To hold it in your hands, to put it on a bookshelf... that's quite another.
Although this particular collection of poetry contained almost all old poems, I did feel like I should write a new one for the occasion, and I was surprised at how easily this one came to me. Though you can, of course, purchase a copy of the book here (same as the link above), I've decided to make the poem public as well. We'll save secrecy for my next collection.

Job

I return always

to the vast, obsidian bowl of space

embedded with stars, each

tugging planets, all spinning, some

with days only an hour long, some

with ice, some with maybe

more of us.

We speak of belief.

Job did, and he was answered

with space, though

what he asked was of death and loss

and time.

We say forever.

And when I hold

you, I’m not only the mouse

hugging the cheese, or the swimmer

with his orange vest, or even the mind

wrapped around reality;

I’m also the last servant, spared by space,

flown home, escaped

to tell you.

Death, what will I do

Death, what will I do

with you?

I can’t hold you.

You’re too dense, too small,

your razor facets of unmaking, unknowing,

unbeing, negating and nevering. You sit there in your ashes,

a hard, possessing lump, encased

in your own silence.

Don’t look right at me.

Don’t look at anyone I know.

I hope you can’t hold me either,

but we’ll see.