The Space Left Behind
BWI
July 25, 2010
I am devoted to solving puzzles with some of the pieces missing.
It is not like making chicken tikka without the chicken,
Nor linguine alla Bolgnese without fresh semolina dough.
It is more like sautéing pignoli in extra-virgin olive oil,
Without fresh oregano,
Or sharing coffee and a golden croissant without the dollop of crème fraiche.
Instead resorting to cream, clotted or otherwise.
Missing parts are a fact of this life today, and life always.
I am in the airport, now.
Missed flights, missed phone calls, missed appointments,
Missed relatives, missed opportunities,
Missed signals, missteps, missed places in line.
A gangling cluster of men in fatigues, joking and laughing,
About to be deployed to a war a half-world away,
Wondering, in the recesses of their minds,
Who among them will go missing, and when.
The Crusader, returning from Asia Minor
To his cold sod home in northern England,
Missing his left eye, which he left on a field of battle
Outside what we call Constantinople.
His submissive wife, missing both her man, who left her 6 years ago,
As well as missing her lover of 6 years,
The grist miller of the Saxon village,
Who gave her the freshest grain when she drew her Sunday water near the mill.
He himself missing 2 fingers on his non-dominant hand, lost when his heavy woolen coat
Caught the leather strapping of his draft horse on a cold night in England’s November.
And his dog, missing her back leg when his heavy, slow wagon slipped its wooden chock
Rolling down the nearly level but slightly sloping rough cobble path to the sod house.
What existence there is, we fill,
With downy feathers of measures and dealings,
To occupy the space left behind.
