I Couldn’t Name What Can’t be Named
Because the end of the day looks like diamonds
adrift and nestled on needles
of the tallest trees.
Because my ashes will settle like that
late afternoon light then sift
with the wind.
Because when the wind shifts,
I fall again.
Because, in time, I regret everything,
apologize for nothing.
Because my son’s mind is not a question
for which I have an answer.
A punctuation mark
without conclusion.
Because we always try to name
what can’t be named,
we label the constellations
so, in naming, we might remember.
Because we can’t carry the light
of a million fallen stars:
the belt and shield of the hunter,
the mother bear and her son,
the tail of the scorpion that could kill him.
Cynthia Neely’s poetry can be found in numerous journals including Floating Bridge Review, Southern Florida Poetry Journal, SWWIM, What Rough Beast, Jet Fuel Review and MER. Her essay, creative nonfiction, and review work has appeared in The Writers’ Chronicle, Terrain.org, and Cutthroat. Her fifth book and second full-length volume, I’ll Dress Myself in Wilderness and You, is forthcoming from Fernwood Press and will include this poem.
Read more poetry by Cynthia appearing in Terrain.org: “Love in the Time of Coronavirus,” a Letter to America poem, and three poems.
Header photo by Simmons Buntin.
