Poetry by Lydia A. Cyrus
The Big Lunch
For Jim Harrison
I.
What does Heaven look like? It is an individual--
not one, set—experience.
It appears as whatever you imagine.
My Heaven could look like prairies--
covered in grass and grazing horses.
The dapple horses I loved as a child
with black manes. Speckles of dirt
black, white, red with dust. The ghosts
of Faulkner and his contemporaries are there.
You are there. Death is the final one: journey, meal,
the last mustang grazing the open plains
before streets are paved.
II.
Will it be wild? Will it be bold?
A fellow named Death rode on
the prayers of the sick, their consumption,
and he slept in the trees. Hanging
from branches like stories. You wrote:
tragic yet a sight to behold. His plate full
of blood and poetry, he fed on the words of lesser men.
Gunslinging could not save you, lyricism
could not provide safe passage. The wolf he
howls in free-verse: It will be. Shooting snakes
in the yards of Montana, you understand then--
don’t you? Death eats men both larger than life and not.
III.
I almost didn’t know you had died.
I found out by accident;
you were older then and it was time.
Blinded in your left eye during
childhood. I thought perhaps
you had a glass eye, burning sands of Patagonia,
there is no proof of it.
Death restores vision, gives back
The ability lost before. What will
your Heaven be then? What do you look like there, now?
Your body was tired but I am certain
that death has made you beautiful again.
For Jim Harrison
I.
What does Heaven look like? It is an individual--
not one, set—experience.
It appears as whatever you imagine.
My Heaven could look like prairies--
covered in grass and grazing horses.
The dapple horses I loved as a child
with black manes. Speckles of dirt
black, white, red with dust. The ghosts
of Faulkner and his contemporaries are there.
You are there. Death is the final one: journey, meal,
the last mustang grazing the open plains
before streets are paved.
II.
Will it be wild? Will it be bold?
A fellow named Death rode on
the prayers of the sick, their consumption,
and he slept in the trees. Hanging
from branches like stories. You wrote:
tragic yet a sight to behold. His plate full
of blood and poetry, he fed on the words of lesser men.
Gunslinging could not save you, lyricism
could not provide safe passage. The wolf he
howls in free-verse: It will be. Shooting snakes
in the yards of Montana, you understand then--
don’t you? Death eats men both larger than life and not.
III.
I almost didn’t know you had died.
I found out by accident;
you were older then and it was time.
Blinded in your left eye during
childhood. I thought perhaps
you had a glass eye, burning sands of Patagonia,
there is no proof of it.
Death restores vision, gives back
The ability lost before. What will
your Heaven be then? What do you look like there, now?
Your body was tired but I am certain
that death has made you beautiful again.
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Lydia A. Cyrus is a creative nonfiction writer and poet from Huntington, West Virginia. Her work has been featured in Thoreau's Rooster, Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Albion Review, and Luna Luna. Her essay "We Love You Anyway," was featured in the 2017 anthology Family Don't End with Blood which chronicles the lives of fans and actors from the television show Supernatural.
She lives and works in Huntington where she spends her time being politically active and volunteering. She is a proud Mountain Woman who strives to make positive change in Southern Appalachia. She enjoys the color red and all things Wonder Woman related! You can usually find her walking around the woods and surrounding areas as she strives to find solitude in the natural world. Twitter: @lydiaacyrus. |
