Once to Speak of His Brightness

O n c e t o S p e a k o f H i s B r i g h t n e s s

By Meg Frietag

( o n e )

How do You let your children

Go like that, every which

Way into the world

Like chess pieces

Set to a terrible music. How

Do You just stand there

And watch them pedal their bikes

Away from you, downhill

At breakneck speeds. Tiny softShelled

crabs so numerous as to seem

Like a single, disorganized organism,

Clamoring all over

The tops of each other

Trying to get to the best air.

How do You let them bury

Each other in the black

Suede of the sea? The first time

I rode in an airplane, I felt as if

I was somehow getting closer to You.

I felt like my prayers

For my friend Joanna, who had been hit

By a car and broken

Her back, would be louder

In Your ear. But the higher we went,

The farther I realized You were. It didn’t

Even occur to me, then,

That she might die, or to worry about her

Never being able to walk again.

I just wanted her to be well

Enough to accompany me

To the waterpark. I wanted to go to her

House and play Operation.

She was the only person I knew

Who still had all the bones

And organs that went to the game. That summer,

I listened to the Jewel

CD on repeat, singing along

Alone in the sunroom of my grandparents’

Pensacola house. Picture

A child, small for her age, drenched

In a large new vibrato. Picture the shivering

Lizards adhered to the window

Screens, picture how green.

And the rain

That came each evening, roaring

Sheets of percussive music. I thought then

Of the Old Testament

God, so notoriously shortTempered,

still figuring Himself

Out. For the longest time I couldn’t

Reconcile him with You. You,

Who I spoke to at night when I was afraid

I might do something to accidentally conjure

The devil and needed reassurance.

You with the dovelight

That trailed behind You

Everywhere you went. How

Do the two of You decide

When it’s time to reach

Down, pick someone

Up by the scruff of his neck?

The clouds turn to brick

Red scabs as the sun sinks, the streetLights

flashing on

Like minnows. I watched

The movie My Girl. It felt like a hole

Had been punched through

The world when the boy

Was stung to death by bees

As he tried to retrieve

The mood ring his best friend had dropped

In the woods. I felt myself projected

Into the body of the girl who loved him,

When she finally lost it

At his funeral

Because he wasn’t wearing

His glasses.

( t w o )

And in real life, there was Snowflake.

They called him that

In seventh grade because of how

Pale he was: his birch-

White hair, his see-through eyelashes.

The veins in his arms like radio

Wires. I swear they did

But when I saw him again, years later,

He didn’t know what I was talking about.

You’re confusing me

With somebody else, he said,

And I never mentioned it again.

Something happened to him

In Afghanistan. Orange dust

Rose around him

So dense I couldn’t see him

Through it whenever he tried to talk

To me about his time there. What does one do

When they are suddenly void

Of all desire? Like they couldn’t grab

Hold of a want

If their life depended on it. I have been

Before to this place, but have always made it

Back in time. Desire, this bright

Spot we carry by its handle

Like a lantern as we move

Forward. Without it

We are blind as animals that live

Their entire lives underground, living

The small way, with their mouths

Full of dirt. Long ago,

The Earth was covered

In a fine white fur. Animals

Slept out in the open and ate

Grain from the palms

Of our hands. You learned the hard way

That something white won’t stay

Clean for long. The bacchanalian

Stench became so thick

We had to line our nostrils

With camphor oil just to sleep

At night. You took down

Everyone’s number, said I will be back

For you later. No one believed You,

That’s how hollow the sounds

Of Earth had become. But You

Showed them. I think

Snowflake killed people

And he was violent with me, once.

I didn’t speak

A word to him

In the three years leading up

To his death. And yet

I still remember him as mostly

A gentle person. A boy with crooked

Wire glasses and filthy sneakers,

Who had panic attacks

Every time he thought

About what would happen

Once the landfills filled up. A summer

Morning, scored by garish,

Unkind light. Blue

Jays scatter from the yard

Like marbles, every which

Way, as I cross

To the compost. I know

It’s in their best interest, but I wish

You’d not taught the animals to fear

Us. Everything

Is always getting smaller

As it moves away. Do you see

Me, how alive I am? Growing

Old as a saint down here

In my little skiff. Caught

Between a desire to be loved—

Deeply, permanently—

And a desire

To be weightless. A foil

Wrapper in the soup-warm sea,

Gleaming

Like a beacon every now and again.

When the light strikes just right.