for Jane

Whether you love a person, a country, a game of Scrabble,

the world says you just keep flailing: I’ve got other work to do.

Not true. The world says nothing. If there were a merry way,

the world would go on it. The waitress didn’t hear your order.

You might as well stop singing.

Because when you were light and airy as angels, compliant

and faith-bound, you could still be shot full of holes

in the schoolyard. As for the little lies that crushed you,

as if under the wheels of a car, those yelps,

nobody hears your pleading, even if they’ve had their go

at love: forget it, no big deal, it’s your own fault,

wrong from the start. Or (under its breath),

those who cross the border, let them drown.

Let the trapped greenhouse gas sizzle the earth.

God invented days at the office, doodads, scandals,

loud music, gossip, kitchens in need of repair,

to keep us safe from love. Our attention can drift,

as in a long marriage, or a long day, a familiar tune.

There’s a trace of joy in the music, like a few wisps of hair

that fell over her face when she was happy, startled, as we all are,

when awakened, or when life is shaken out of us:

the lion with the hyena in its mouth, or less dramatically,

the key given back to the owner. So, after all the false alarms,

visits to emergency rooms, weeks in bed in the dark,

after we prepared a speech for the funeral, she went on

to live awhile, even if our hearts were bound to be

broken again, she wanted a ride in the country,

any country, just to feel another brush with the air.