a corpses effects, by daniel kaufman

a corpse's effects

A writer sits in an airport gate

waiting for a friend to land.

Then a woman with an announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, e-excuse me.

I am very, very sorry. Flight two-eleven
from New York has –

there has been an accident."

There is a beat of silence, as the news descends

like a raw egg smacked onto each waiting person's head,

then a swarm of questions and words through which the writer catches

"no survivors."

There is wailing. There is quiet weeping.

There is running to pay phones.

The writer watches it all for a long time, then

rises and leaves, stunned, a tumult behind him.

There is nothing for him to do. He doesn't

know his friend's family. He walks.

He imagines his friend going down, but he can't quite.

He never saw her afraid. He tears up.

He had planned to take her

to an Italian restaurant. Now

he will just go home and eat alone.

That is my only change, he thinks,

and she has lost everything.

The contrast strikes him and he sits down

at another gate, this one full of calm, sleepy people,

to write a poem about it.

He writes some lines, then asks himself

is he giving this moment its due reverence

by stopping to reflect

or is he plundering it

like some bum who finds a corpse

and pries off its rings,

takes its watch and wallet?

Maybe he's trying to smother his pain

with thinking.

Maybe this is why he ever wrote.

1993