The Tuning: IV. The Tuning

If anyone asks you how I died, say this: The angel of death came in the form of a

moth

And landed on the lute I was repairing.

I closed up shop

And left the village on the quietest night of

summer,

The summer of my thirtieth year,

And went with her up through the thorn

forest.

Tell them I heard yarrow stalks snapping

beneath my feet

And heard a dog bark far off, far off.

That’s all I saw or heard,

Apart from the angel at ankle level leading

me,

Until we got above the treeline and I turned To look for the last time on the lights of home.

That’s when she started singing.

It’s written that the voice of the god of Israel Was the voice of many waters.

But this was the sound of trees growing, The noise of a pond thrown into a stone.

When I turned from the lights below to

watch her sing,

I found the angel changed from moth to

woman,

Singing inhuman intervals through her

human throat,

The notes at impossible angles justified.

If you understand, friend, explain to them So they pray for me. How could I go back?How could I bear to hear the heart’s old

triads –

Clatter of hooves, the closed gate clanging, A match scratched toward a pipe –

How could I bear to hear my children cry?

I found a rock that had the kind of heft

We weigh the world against

And brought it down fast against my

forehead

Again, again, until blood drenched my chest And I was safe and real forever.