“Don’t worry, I will return,” were not his dying words.He had no dying words.
There was no pretense, no implosion.11:00 p.m.
He was quiet, remote, dying,sheer as a curtain.
The body is a big dumb object, he taught us.Death is a genius.
“Do you understand?” he did not say.11:05 p.m.
Still no protest.Around him we were
a collectivefor which there existed no name.
Vortex?Hive? Enigma?
Astrophysicists were askingfor suggestions.
Terror. A terror of black holes,someone proposed.
Yes, that was true.Silence. A silence of black holes,
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someone proposed.That too was accurate.
What is metaphor?What is metaphor for?
For you, my father,genius in a big dumb object.
For when the curtains shiveredand we saw you enter the vortex
of world peace,with its hive of enigmas.
Catherine BarnettCatherine Barnett is the author of Human Hours (winner of the 2018 Believer Book Award in Poetry, a New York Times “Best Poetry of 2018” selection, and a finalist for the T.S. Eliot Four Quartets Award). Her forthcoming collection, Solutions for the Problem of Bodies in Space (Graywolf), will be published in May.