The sheerest honesty you could find
In any poem falls from Tracy Smith’s last
Half line, after a caesura so heavy it snaps
Into separate sentences, split statements,
One pretty lyric fragment, one bare gasp.
“Like a dark star. I want to last.”
She knows, we know, we all know, whether
We can drag ourselves half so close to candor
Or can’t, can’t, can’t. She, we, you, me can’t
Last. I like to stress the fact we’re falling fast,
But I’m rarely naked enough, transparent
To my own hankering as the wind rushes
Past. I know the landing lies ahead of me,
Know even the saints and sages have to smash,
Say it daily, like a mantra, toughen my eyes
By focusing on the crash. But I want to last.
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