The next poem, the title comes from an essay
by Martha Nussbaum on compassion and terror.
And she's talking about this phenomenon or this idea
that when one--
the idea of compassion and when one becomes concerned
with something that's happening far from them, something that's
not in their immediate circle, they
lose sensation for things that are happening near them.
It's as if it's an either/or proposition
to become overly or at all concerned
with the things that are happening far away from you.
And to expand your compassion on that
is to lose a connection to the things that are happening right
in front of you.
And she calls this "The Problem of Death
Within Life," which is the title of the poem.
Give and leave to speak, I shape my tongue into a shovel
and ask for more.
I should have told the truth, but the truth is incomplete.
I seek the missing pieces and my eyes go lazy.
It's a choice I make that ruins me.
I get off easy.
I let myself go.
I hide the faces of the dying.
Wrap what remains in lace and tuck it in the bottom drawer.
I'm sure I've pitied you all wrong.
I don't know how it's done.
I never learned.
I engulf with an affection for my chasm
in my gut, a sweet trap door, a heart shaped
hole, a pretty well that threatens to swallow me up.
This is a brief malfunction.
When you shift out of the frame, the feeling
shorts and dissipates and sparks.
What a mess I've made of this emotion.
It's only endlessness I've wanted.
I can't fill my bowl or yours.
I can't keep my full mouth shut.