AFTER READING THAT THE CENTRAL PARK POLAR BEAR DIED
I am relieved. For twenty-seven years,
he swam laps all day, slicing the water—
his seven hundred pounds‚ muscle,
tendon, yellowing fur, black eyes
have all turned to ash. The week you
were diagnosed, I pushed your stroller
thirty-three blocks for our first pilgrimage
to the zoo. You recognized him
from your board book and flapped
your arms in sync with his strokes.
Unseasonably warm in October, we stood—
stunned inside sweaters—embroidered
with flowers of forgetfulness. I was
the only one, fixed in front of his small tank,
who saw how sad it was that he barreled
in backstrokes of figure eights. His giant paws
slashed the cloudy water, knowing
he would never get anywhere, despite
how hard he tried. Sixteen years later,
you still run or pace back and forth
in our living room, with or without music,
babbling your indecipherable language.
Your swimmers’ shoulders cut the empty air
all night as you make patterns on the threadbare rug.
MEMENTO MORI: STRADIVARIUS
In a few decades, they will go to sleep. Even
the greatest instruments must die; their wounded
wood will no longer make the same sounds they’ve made
for three centuries. The mayor of Cremona shuts the town,
blocks the cobblestone streets for five weeks so musicians
can record thousands of scales and arpeggios in quiet.
Each car remains parked and silenced; all the buzzing
lightbulbs in the concert hall stand unscrewed.
I love the citizens of my grandparents’ home,
believing humans will still be alive to hear music.
I want them to play these recordings
as the world ends, each unique violin reaching out
to the great concert hall of the universe—
all the unoccupied velvet chairs.