I didn’t hear your last words or see your last
eyes. I didn’t reach you in time, so I sat by your corpse,
silently saying goodbye. I am in that process,

not sour, not sweet, that yoked speaking which can’t
(because the heart won’t let it) utter its whispered
last word, but stutters instead like the awful-eyed

idiot of love, stroking a hand and thinking it speech.
Nothing pulses now from your cold, dead palm;
No sounds exit, no language leaks.

You’re beyond the infinite weakness of words;
I’m still in their thrall, caught in the thrashing
eloquence of unregistered inarticulate emotion.

What does death do? It petrifies pain, reifies loss,
installs nothing new, revokes everything old.

Bill Yarrow

Bill Yarrow

Bill Yarrow, Professor of English at Joliet Junior College and an editor at the online journal Blue Fifth Review, is the author of The Vig of Love, Blasphemer, Pointed Sentences, and five chapbooks, most recently We All Saw It Coming. His work also appears in the anthologies Aeolian Harp, This is Poetry, and Beginnings: How 14 Poets Got Their Start. He has been widely published in both national and international journals and has been nominated eight times for a Pushcart Prize.
Bill Yarrow

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