The Hour and What is Dead
by Li Young Lee
Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
through bare rooms over my head,
opening and closing doors.
What could he be looking for in an empty house?
What could he possibly need there in heaven?
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
His love for me feels like spilled water
running back to its vessel.
At this hour, what is dead is restless
and what is living is burning.
Someone tell him he should sleep now.
My father keeps a light on by our bed
and readies for our journey.
He mends ten holes in the knees
of five pairs of boy’s pants.
His love for me is like sewing:
various colors and too much thread,
the stitching uneven. But the needle pierces
clean through with each stroke of his hand.
At this hour, what is dead is worried
and what is living is fugitive.
Someone tell him he should sleep now.
God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.
At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
and helpless. While the Lord lives.
Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I’ve had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.
“At this hour, what is dead is restless
and what is living is burning.
Someone tell him he should sleep now.”
Fantastic.
I love that Lee’s voice as a poet is humble and unpretentious. I am really drawn to the spinning of his voice– methodical and confident. Thanks for sharing this lovely poem. It resonates with nights I wait to fall asleep and feel the pressure of my family, dead and undead, above me.
Those are my favorite lines as well. What Lee can do with the sparest of images always thrills and astounds me. And you’re right–I think much of what I find to love lies in the brilliant deceptively simple language. This poem connects for me as well to one of my favorite lines from early work from Liam Rector–from “Driving November”–“When born, we inherit what’s burning.”
I love how you speak of the comfort of poetry. Those I have memorized I find myself reciting quietly when I need that kind of comfort–like saying a prayer.
Thanks for sharing these with me.
Best,
Mary