Raymond Soulard, Jr. New Songs (for Kassandra) - The ...

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Grey sips & waits—
Just to be holding this ragged sheaf of papers, this bless black pen moving still, 20
years of this story or something resembling this story—
weary, fierce the music everywhere even when I feel—
Rebecca laughs teasing honey onto my lap licking my ear & I broil with life & hope
& love—
I have no music to share tonight, not tonight, not yet—claws unloosed, rage in a box
with no walls, emptiness thick, I love you, marry me, marry me, & again, & again
“Yes,” she says. “Always.”
A white butterfly means yes. A black carriage means no. A red bonnet for Art. A
yellow hate for longing. A pink gown for hunger. A blue suit for embrace.
“You,” she says. “Always.”
We hold hands, transmit music, interior music, open border, infinite smile—
always—no matter the—
“Why this War, Rebby?”
“I think it has to happen. Too many people have been waiting. It’s been coming for
a long time, I think”
“Is it the beginning of the end?”
“For some people, it’s always the beginning of the end”
“And for us?”
“For us, it’s always the beginning. We’re children no matter our ages, no matter our
worries”
“Children?”
“Yes—always beginning—always new—”
“So they will beat us because of this?”
“No—they’ll beat us if we deny it—”
“And so that’s the challenge?”
“Of course—always”
All is grief, so one is told, accept it, bring warm black clothes, expect the rhythms of
mourning, grow used to the ways of the world. This world. A world.
All is grief, perhaps. Some nights frigid with loss, fear, loneliness.
Some crackle with laughter. Some tickle into songs.
Her dark blue eyes play me, shout me, croon me. Croon me.
“Rebecca!” Giggle.
“Raymond!” Giggle.
This world remains, & awaits me. Always.
A page at a time. A minute. An idea.
The Cenacle | 59 | October 2006