Spring 1990 • Vol. XII No. 2 April 1, 1990 |

Requiem

for Jim Elrod Take him, then, since you already have, without asking. Rip the note from my calendar that says, "Write to Jim." Crush the gift other friends were bringing him—to hold you off, to imagine we could dissuade you. Death, are you ever peace? Perhaps, once we've spit on enough candles. After our stained faces soften, when he can listen without our bitterness, give him the litany of your true names, the ones you hide from us. Let him sing what we can't hear as you take him toward your unimaginable home. And, if you have anything like arms, or wear something like a coat, warm him, as we wanted to. At least that, now that he's yours.

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