Upon the Death of Someone I Do Not Know {poetry for lent}

I would flunk Kinsley Koons, if I could, if I were her professor, so that she would be unable to move to Chicago. So that she and her deep thoughts could stay and keep me company on the prairie. I'm thankful she's shared this poem with us.

Is it possible that every death beats in our bones? And can we feel every birth in our own pumping blood, too?

Upon the Death of Someone I Do Not Know

By Kinsley Koons

To be great, you said, is

a torturous kind of beauty—

A moment of deep sorrow,

married to regret.

I think that if a tree falls

when no one is around

it has to make a noise.

It is a silent kind of sound,

one that shakes the ground.

(I hear it in the falling

of your feet

heavy in rhythm. 

I hear it in the voices

of others who barely

remember your name.)

The sound, it fills my bones

giving each its own little heartbeat.

With each stinging thump

I feel your absence.

The Midwestern skyline is emptier

than I can remember.

To live

is a torturous

kind of beauty.

Can you hear it?

an explanation of {poetry for lent}

an invitation to join (this friday!)