Snow would be the easy way out—that softening sky like a sigh of relief at finally being allowed to yield. No dice. We stack twigs for burning in glistening patches but the rain won’t give.
So we wait, breeding mood, making music of decline. We sit down in the smell of the past and rise in a light that is already leaving. We ache in secret, memorizing
a gloomy line or two of German. When spring comes we promise to act the fool. Pour, rain! Sail, wind, with your cargo of zithers!
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When my brother died I worried there wasn’t enough time to deliver the one hundred invitations I’d scribbled while on the phone with the mortuary: Because of the short notice no need to rsvp. Unfortunately the firemen couldn’t come. (I had hoped they’d give free rides on the truck.) They did agree to drive by the house once with the lights on— It was a party after all.
I put Mom and Dad in charge of balloons, let them blow as many years of my brother’s name, jails, twenty-dollar bills, midnight phone calls, fistfights, and er visits as they could let go of. The scarlet balloons zigzagged along the ceiling like they’d been filled with helium. Mom blew up so many that she fell asleep. She slept for ten years— she missed the whole party.
My brothers and sisters were giddy, shredding his stained T-shirts and raggedy pants, throwing them up into the air like confetti.
When the clowns came in a few balloons slipped out the front door. They seemed to know where they were going and shrank to a fistful of red grins at the end of our cul-de-sac. The clowns played toy bugles until the air was scented with rotten raspberries. They pulled scarves from Mom’s ear—she slept through it. I baked my brother’s favorite cake (chocolate, white frosting). When I counted there were ninety-nine of us in the kitchen. We all stuck our fingers in the mixing bowl.
A few stray dogs came to the window. I heard their stomachs and mouths growling over the mariachi band playing in the bathroom. (There was no room in the hallway because of the magician.) The mariachis complained about the bathtub acoustics. I told the dogs, No more cake here, and shut the window. The fire truck came by with the sirens on. The dogs ran away. I sliced the cake into ninety-nine pieces.
I wrapped all the electronic equipment in the house, taped pink bows and glittery ribbons to them— remote controls, the Polaroid, stereo, Shop-Vac, even the motor to Dad’s work truck—everything my brother had taken apart and put back together doing his crystal meth tricks—he’d always been a magician of sorts.
Two mutants came to the door. One looked almost human. They wanted to know if my brother had willed them the pots and pans and spoons stacked in his basement bedroom. They said they missed my brother’s cooking and did we have any cake. No more cake here, I told them. Well, what’s in the piñata? they asked. I told them God was and they ran into the desert, barefoot. I gave Dad his slice and put Mom’s in the freezer. I brought up the pots and pans and spoons (really, my brother was a horrible cook), banged them together like a New Year’s Day celebration.
My brother finally showed up asking why he hadn’t been invited and who baked the cake. He told me I shouldn’t smile, that this whole party was shit because I’d imagined it all. The worst part he said was he was still alive. The worst part he said was he wasn’t even dead. I think he’s right, but maybe the worst part is that I’m still imagining the party, maybe the worst part is that I can still taste the cake.
Note: While I have endeavored to ensure this poem was formatted on this page as the author originally intended, there may be slight differences between what is displayed here and what appears in a physical format.
Natalie Diaz is a Latina and Mojave poet and is enrolled as a member of the Gila Indian Community. She currently lives in Arizona and is an Associate Professor at Arizona State University. She is the author of two poetry collections, When My Brother Was an Aztec and Postcolonial Love Poem, which was awarded the 2021 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
Thanks as always for being a faithful reader of The Voracious Bibliophile. If you like what you see, please like, comment, follow, and subscribe to my email list to get notified of new posts as soon as they drop. You can also email me at fred.slusher@thevoraciousbibliophile.com or catch me on Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and Pinterest @voraciousbiblog. Keep reading the world, one page (or pixel) at a time.
People think pleasing God is all God care about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back.
There’s a lot of pain, yes, but there’s also so much joy. The Color Purple is so radiant it practically glows in the dark.
The Color Purple is one of my favorite books of all time. Because there are so many books I want to read, there are only a few books I’ll reread; The Color Purple is one of them. I get more from it each time I read it. More than just a great novel, it is a blueprint for expressing love through careful attention, through putting oneself in a place of openness and willingness to accept the love we feel we don’t deserve. There’s a lot of pain, yes, but there’s also so much joy. The Color Purple is so radiant it practically glows in the dark.
Thanks as always for being a faithful reader of The Voracious Bibliophile. If you like what you see, please like, comment, follow, and subscribe to my email list to get notified of new posts as soon as they drop. You can also email me at fred.slusher@thevoraciousbibliophile.com or catch me on Twitter and Instagram @voraciousbiblog. Keep reading the world, one page (or pixel) at a time.
You stand as rocks stand to which the sea reaches in transparent waves of longing; they are marred, finally; everything fixed is marred. And the sea triumphs, like all that is false, all that is fluent and womanly. From behind, a lens opens for your body. Why should you turn? It doesn’t matter who the witness is, for whom you are suffering, for whom you are standing still.
Louise Glück. Unknown Author. Public Domain.
Note: Louise Glück was the recipient of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature. Her collection of poetry, The Wild Iris (1993), won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
Thanks as always for being a faithful reader of The Voracious Bibliophile. If you like what you see, please follow, like, comment, and subscribe to my email list to get notified of new posts as soon as they drop. You can also email me at thevoraciousbibliophile@yahoo.com or catch me on Twitter @voraciousbiblog. Keep reading the world, one page (or pixel) at a time.
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