They can't imagine what it will be
to recall from somewhere back not knowing the Master.
I can. And go on imagining:
how would it be to go on living
backwards always, beginning
with Death? To rise from his recital room
in censure and pain, born of undying?
How brief the time
before one cast aside the cane, the crutch, and walked
ever more into the upright,
and to hell with the Bingo, the card games!
One would feel the cloth swell taut
again over arm and thigh
and groin. A backing to bloom.
One's lifemate, assuming such good fortune,
would grow in this version more easy with every moment
to comprehend and to love with abandon
till it seemed the two of you lay
pooled in the sweat of intimacy
forever. How would that be,
such comfort before the tears
(so useless for years) that poured
at oddest hours, at slightest slights?
Then a horde of children hurtling (though ever more slowly)
beside you back to school, to the moments of flood
as your first love told you love had faded
before the early words of ardor sank in the playground ruckus.
