Day After Day of the Dead

By Nathaniel Mackey b. 1947 Nathaniel Mackey

—“mu” forty-eighth part

“While we’re alive,” we kept
    repeating. Tongues, throats,
roofs of our mouths bone dry,
      skeletons we’d someday
                                                    be...
   Panicky masks we wore for
       effect more than effect,
     more real than we’d admit...
 
 No longer wanting to know
   what soul was, happy to
                                               see
      shadow, know touch...
 Happy to have sun at our
   backs, way led by shadow,
 happy to have bodies, block
                                                     light...
Afternoon sun lighting leaf,
       glint of glass, no matter what,
           about to be out of body it
                                                           seemed...
   Soon to be shadowless we thought,
     said we thought, not to be offguard,
 caught out. Gray morning we            
                                                        meant
          to be done with, requiem so
      sweet we forgot what it lamented,
                                                                    teeth
    turning to sugar, we
  grinned
 
                       •
 
  Day after day of the dead we were
    desperate. Dark what the night
 before we saw lit, bones we’d
       eventually be... At day’s end a
                                                             new
  tally but there it was, barely
                                                     begun,
   rock the clock tower let go of,
     iridescent headstone, moment’s
    rebuff... Soul, we saw, said we
                                                           saw,
invisible imprint. No one wanted to
                                                                  know
   what soul was... Day after day of
       the dead we were deaf, numb to
     what the night before we said moved
                                                                         us,
   fey light’s coded locale... I fell away,
 we momentarily gone, deaf but to
      brass’s obsequy, low brass’s
   croon begun. I fell away, not fast,
                                                                floated,
        momentary mention an accord
  with the wind, day after day of the dead
    the same as day before day of
 
the dead... “No surprise,” I fell away
      muttering, knew no one would
                                                               hear,
    not even
      me

                       •

   We wore capes under which we
were in sweaters out at the elbow.
 Arms on the table, we chewed our
                                                                spoons...
      Mouthing the blues, moaned an
 abstract truth, kept eating. The
  dead's morning-after buffet
someone said it was. Feast of 
                                                      the
unfed said someone else... What
  were we doing there the exegete
 kept asking, adamant, uninvited,
                                                              morose...

     Elbows in the air like wings, we
         kept eating, rolled our eyes,
                                                            kept
      shoveling it in... Day after day
of the dead we were them. We
  ate inexhaustibly, ate what wasn't
                                                                there,
        dead no longer dying of thirst,
      hung over, turned our noses up
                                                                to
    what
   was





             ________________

  It was me, we were it, insensate,
   sugared sweat what what we drank
tasted like. Even so, the tips of
                                                         our
   tongues tasted nothing, we sipped
without wincing... We ate cakes,
                                                            we
ate fingernail soup, a new kind of
    gazpacho, no one willing to say
  what soul was... Knucklebone
soufflé we ate, we ate gristle, eyes
                                                              we
     took from flies flying backward
   a kind of caviar, none of us wanting
                                                                   to say
 what soul
was

Nathaniel Mackey, “Day After Day of the Dead” from Nod House. Copyright © 2011 by Nathaniel Mackey. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Source: Nod House (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 2011)

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Poet Nathaniel Mackey b. 1947

POET’S REGION U.S., Western

Subjects Living, Death, The Body

Poetic Terms Free Verse