Canyon

R is steering her way toward a canyon in Colorado–
she warns me we may get cut off–
while I’m circling my neighborhood
like a dog on a leash. Same old ten blocks. She tells me
how a friend of hers, sick unto death
with no cure, chose her own departure date.
R was part of the party that gathered to sing her out,
and all went as planned–still, she says,
it’s weird, the aftermath of it,
echoing inside her. Death is a mindfuck
I say and R laughs so hard
I’m afraid she’ll drive right off the road,
and I laugh back, because it is,
no matter how much we try, no one
can really wrap their heart around eternal
disappearance. R tells me how her friend
loved the party, how she was singing
up till the very end and I say
That’s how I’d like to go,
and she says Me too, and there’s a universe
of things we could add but don’t,
because just then she disappears
into the canyon as forewarned.
I remember a time, not that long ago,
when for any two to talk like this,
wirelessly connected through empty air,
would be considered its own
kind of miracle. Which it is.
Amidst all the other terror
and beauty happening out there.
A minute later, the thing buzzes in my hand
and we pick right up where we left off.

*

Alison Luterman has published four previous collections of poetry, most recently In the Time of Great Fires (Catamaran Press,) and Desire Zoo (Tia Chucha Press.) Her poems have appeared in The New York Times Sunday Magazine, The Sun, Rattle, and elsewhere. She writes and teaches in Oakland, California. www.alisonluterman.net