Christopher Thomas
Learning the Language of Letting Go
I would like to be speaking of things
that still shimmer between us. But learning
you share the saxophone player’s opinion
of who I am and what I do changed all that.
This will be the last poem I write for you.
The secret of learning the language of letting
go is to step into a silence that no longer
remembers how to say certain names.
I would like to tell you this will be difficult
for me, but the fact is I’ve dealt with those
sad opinions for so many years, I learned to slam
the spirit shut and go about my business alone
by the time I was twelve years old. That was
the year I started collecting coins and first
read the poems of Walt Whitman seriously enough
to know just how ornery the journey could get.
Today, for example, I tried to forget that what
my fingers know of music can no longer be sent
your way. I played on just the black keys.
The music seemed glad to be found waiting there.
I would like to tell you that sticks and stones
can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.
You would know better. I’ve seen you aim whole
sentences carefully as any hunter’s spear.
But I must tell you one last thing. I thought
you knew not all opinions come draped in fire
and light. Some are nothing more than bigotry
weeping like pus from the open sores of fear.
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