in memoriam:
José Luis Montalvo
1946-1994
WHEN POETS DIE
When I saw him at the store,
I was shaken by the changes.
It had been months,
And the cancer inside had
Withered him
Like the worm devours
Fruit from within,
Leaving only a wrinkled skin.
We were in the garden section.
He carried with him a flower
To hang out in the yard,
New, growing, alive.
"I thought of planting seeds," he said,
"But was afraid it was too late."
I did not know if he meant
The season or
His own fleeing life.
He had always spoken strong words,
Thrown them like stones at
Those who dared to disagree.
Now his voice a whisper.
I stared into the face of
The thief who, in the end, steals
Our last breath
Our last word Our last
chance to say good-bye.
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I wonder what happens when poets die.
Do they lie alone, afraid
Grasping any chance
To stay a while,
Or relinquish to face the
New and undiscovered?
Does their spirit become
One with the wind,
Their ancestors,
Or return to guide others who
Have chosen their way?
Are they called like elephants
And other great beasts
To some commonplace,
Where they lie amongst their own
To die
Stacked generation on generation
So that years from now,
While searching for
Answers to ancient questions,
Someone will dig them up
Find their words
Impressed in stone.
—Charles Owsley©
(first published in ARRIBA, Vol. 14,
No. 20 Oct. 7 1994, Austin, Texas
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