Burial Practice

after Srikanth Reddy

By Thade Correa

Quant au monde, quand tu sortiras, que serait-il devenu? En tout cas, rien des apparences actuelles.
Rimbaud, “Jeunesse”
 
Then the ending of the story mid-sentence.
Then breath slowing.
Then tapestries of nerves unraveling.
Then breath forgotten.
Then eyes without eyes.
Then the empty chariot.
Then blankets, processions.
Then onward, voyager.
Then doors and doors closing.
Then ashes and centuries again.

*

Then everything unnameable.
Then the wind without your voice.
Then skies changing color.
Then the wind.

*

Then a slow parade of worms.
Then dust.
Then grass across the years.
Then a cloud, and a cloud.
Then the circuits of the stars.

*

Then the same abstractions.
Then tomorrow and tomorrow.
Then you and Ius and them.
Then the same hatred, killing, injustice.
Then love but never this body.
Then bread but never these hands.

*

Then centuries.
Then the enigmas of night.
Then what lies in darkness waiting to be born.
Then echoes of your breath, hands, eyes.
Then a pebble dropped into a pond.
Then starlight on waves.
Then the torn pages of the story returning in a raw wind.
Then rain over a field.
Then from your silent lips, a shudder of green.


Thade Correa hails from Northwest Indiana. He received his BA from Indiana University, Bloomington, his MA from the University of Chicago, and his MFA from the University of Notre Dame. His work has appeared in various journals, and recently garnered him the 2012 Billy Maich Academy of American Poets Prize.