So Fucking Authoritative: How A Poem Saves A Life

There are as many fears as there are things to be afraid of, and several more as well, as there are always more ways than one to fear something.

And every fear is a bit of dust, while within every speck of fear, there is the germ of a germ that could end it all.

There are the little fears, and the big ones, and all those in between.

Fears bigger than a breadbox but smaller than a dinosaur comprise most of the general-issue fears.

I used to think the obvious fears were obvious for a reason — they were the most important fears, obviously. And we all know which fear we think tops that list.

Funny then, to be this much closer to death, only to realize death isn’t even in the top 20.

There was a point when I thought I was on the scent of the truth. When I was feeling authoritative.

Too old to fall for the new songs, too young to appreciate the old ones.

Right in the middle, without a song, and tasting the warm, flat soda of the truth on a blistery day at the shore of nowhere.

Yet just as one cannot process the past anymore than predict the future when one is at the juncture, I would learn there were far more substantial fears yet to come.

And they do come.

They come, and then they come back, like the dust on the top of a refrigerator.

The worst of which always arrives while you’re washing the dishes late at night. The counter is already wet, the strainer is full of old salad, your apron doesn’t fit, and you wish you hadn’t left your feet bare, because now there is cold mushy rice stuck to your toe. Your tea has already gone cold, and one light bulb is flickering only just enough to drive you mad. With soapy fingers, you keep searching for something that feels right, sounds right, is right. But nothing works, and what isn’t working almost hurts, it’s so wrong.

And suddenly, you realize, this is the fear above all fears, the one fear all your other fears have been building toward. You are suddenly, deeply, desperately afraid that there may no longer be a song that you can turn to. Now, or ever.

And the metaphysical fall-out falls on you like leaves in the fall.

Always, there was a song you could turn to. Something that spoke to you, resonated with you, explained the world to you, and your place in it.

What a lonely and frightening place it is, to be without a song. Little more than a little bit of dander in a cold, carbon world.

Oh, but there are still fears to come.

Because with age you begin to realize that there doesn’t have to be a new song. The old ones will suffice. They can be returned to, they do not expire, they have a shelf life of forever.

And you shake your head, grin with a bit of embarrassment, then select one of the songs you’ve selected so many times before. And you finish the dishes.

And you finish the dishes.

And you check the windows to ensure that they’re closed. And you check the blinds to ensure that they’re closed. And you go out front to check the cars to make sure that they’re locked. And you bow to the moon, and to the stars, and to the sea.

And you come back in, and you brush your teeth, and you putter, and you arrange, and like a dog circling its bed, you circle your bed, until eventually you are in bed, and you turn the lights out, and you click your paperwhite Kindle on, and you look for something to read.

And you look for something to read.

And you look for something to read.

And you are tired, and it all feels too much. And there is something wrong with you. There is no position you can find where your body doesn’t betray you. You lie this way and you can’t breathe. You lie that way and your leg cramps. You like on your back and you start to cough. You lay on your stomach and the pulse of blood in your ears outdrums the sound of silence you are chasing.

Please, you think, there must be something I can read that will soothe this.

I must, you say to yourself, fall asleep soon.

If I stay awake past the window of opportunity, I will never sleep again.

And you can feel it coming on you, the restlessness, the reawakening of your mind, your ruminations, your ceaseless cycles of damnable, tormenting thoughts.

And you pray for a poem that can save you. A poem, a poem, my life for a poem, my kingdom for a poem, please let me sleep on a pillow of poem, please let me dream on the wings of a poem, please let me reach into the heart of the sky and shake hands with the great poem of sleeping — the poem of sleepers, the poem of the peaceful, the poem of those accepted to the bosom of sanity.

What you need is a poem.

But it is not Dylan Thomas tonight. And it is not Sharon Olds tonight. And it is not Buson tonight, nor James Wright tonight, nor Charles Wright tonight. It is not Bob Kaufman, and it is never Louise Glück. And once it was Emily Dickinson, and very frequently it was Hsu Chao, but it is not Hsu Chao, because the actual news is full of soldier corpses and civilian corpses and by civilian corpses you mean people with first names and last names and middle names with cousins and uncles and pets and whose bodies are now torn to shreds and are not married to anything now but blood and earth and nothing.

And nothing is working, and you feel so afraid, because if there is no poem for you, can you really be said to be here?

And then you recall a poem, you remember a poem, and you know this is the poem, but you cannot recall the name of the poem, but you think you remember a line from the poem, but you search and the search does not reveal the name of the poem, and you are now more awake than you were, and less asleep than you should be.

And this is the paradox. There is a poem for you. But you cannot find it.

And this is why the library is the greatest story never told.

And I searched the library’s search, and I found Hayden Carruth, and I found Tell Me Again How the White Heron Rises and Flies across the Nacreous River at Twilight toward the Distant Islands. And I found “How Lewisburg, Pa, Escaped the Avenging Angel.” And while I didn’t sleep for one night, I slept the next, and I awoke without fear, and I was afraid of nothing.

How Lewisburg, Pa, Escaped the Avenging Angel

“Dust,” she said. “What is it? Where does it come from?”
“What do you mean dust?” I said.
“Dust,” she said. “That stuff that comes back on top of the
refrigerator three days after you’ve wiped it off.”
“Lint,” I said. “Bits of soil. Danders. Carbon. Vegetable matter.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Generalized metaphysical fall-out,” I said. “Dust to dust, etc.”
“How do you know?” she said.
“I don’t,” I said.
“Then kindly refrain from being so fucking authoritative,” she said.

And that is the poem that saved my life and let me sleep, and then awaken.