Tragic Language

This is a poem I wrote about the emptiness of words.

Tragic Language

I watch as my mother writes a note
to another English teacher
and I wonder at what age she began
scribbling fluently

To Ironically indicate
Dr. Grissom draws arrows un-switching my infinitive
And I wouldn’t decipher her cacography otherwise

Should I worry? Remember,

Aunt Nita taught in Iowa for years
before we learned she had cancer, and her
words were nonsense in her final days.

Afterward, I prayed:
By the will of Arthur, may I live
just as she has died: without so many words

Peter D. gave his mom’s eulogy without crying
and cursing only once. I agreed,
Damn it, sixty years is not enough
Damn it, neither is ninety or a hundred.

As an angel of the gospel revealing to men a
thing-in-itself
when all they understand
are words