The Second Arrow

The last thing that I said to him

was ordinary and impatient.

Four words at a doorway,

and the door, and then the phone.

The first grief was the loss.

The rest of it was me —

a decade of re-staging

a conversation I can't reach.

The first wound came from the world.

Everything after that is mine —

That's the second arrow. (second arrow)

That's the one I fire myself.

The first one lands and does its damage

and the second one's a choice.

Second arrow, second arrow —

same wound, every night,

and I've been holding the bow.

And I'm not saying that it's nothing.

I'm not saying let it go

like grief is something in a drawer

you can shut and walk away from.

I'm saying there's a difference

between carrying and re-enacting,

and nobody ever told me

whose hand was on the string.

So the doorway comes back tonight

and I'm going to try one thing —

Notice the second arrow. (second arrow)

Notice it, and don't shoot.

Let the memory be a memory,

not a nightly reconstruction.

Second arrow, second arrow —

he has been gone eleven years

and I have not stopped once.

That's the second arrow. (second arrow)

And I put the bow down in the car park,

on a night with no occasion,

and the doorway went quiet.

Second arrow, second arrow —

he would have hated all of this,

he'd have said "it was four words" —

and I think he'd have been right.