I have been failing for years
to write a poem about dying.
This isn’t true. I’m still lying
about suicides. I haven’t
said anything.
Omissions
are blessings that catch up
to you eventually. Van Gogh
painted fields of wheat and
a dead end path just weeks
before shooting himself, a
dark sky and loneliness. I
am evading your question.
The wheat bending like hair
combed softly, the clouds
heavy with color, the depth
of his brush, clumped and
swirling as if saying none
of this was real. My brother
cried when I told him that
our Uncle Adam was found
in his childhood
home. I refused to
look into the casket
at his twin brother’s funeral
twenty years ago. I did not
want to see his body
embalmed, or his skin
tinged blue, ominous.
A dark sky is only real if
you are looking for it. I can’t
say whether it was from
asphyxiation or chemicals
but Adam found Marc and
held him for ten years
then followed him. When
Van Gogh painted the field,
did he, as I like to imagine,
see only the wheat and sky,
before the crows startled
by something, rose up
filling the air like thought
before flying away, yes
even the crows, away
from him.