There are two holes in my heart.
Two of my elder ladies passed on.
One Friday night.
One this evening.
I've known them both since I was a young adult.
I've known them both forever.
I want to say the words that would speak of the heaviness in my heart
and the many memories I hold close.
But, eloquence won't come.
There's too much.
So, instead, I give you this:
“Perfection Wasted” by John Updike
And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market –
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
to the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That’s it; no one;
imitators and descendants aren’t the same.