The passing of Ruth Bader Ginsberg felt like a punch to the gut, a moment in which all oxygen left our air, all sense left our world. Once again, words seemed to leave me and when I finally picked up a pen to think about how to make meaning out of this moment, prose fell by the wayside and verse (a rare thing for me) emerged. I found solace in the work of Frank O'Hara, whose poem The Day Lady Died is among my favorites, one of the best articulations of what the death of an icon means to the individual. I have patterned this on his elegy to Billie Holiday, with both thanks and apologies to him.
(Oh, and one more thing: be kind, for I am not nor do I claim to be a poet.)
The Day Justice Died*
It is 10:45 in New Rochelle a Friday
Erev Rosh Hashanah, yes
it is 2020 and I go to play tennis
because I have a flu shot in Larchmont
at 1:30 and I need to shower as
it is the only other time I will see people today
I walk through the Farmer’s Market under a sun
that has returned after days of hiding behind
smoky haze from Phoenix, Oregon
which is gone
my mask slips down my chin
while the pharmacist checks me in (first name Bae)
and tells me I am number 47 and Brad and Jen
had chemistry last night sparring with Cameron Crowe’s words
while Morgan Freeman read and Sean Penn looked on, but
I didn’t see it because I liked The Princess Bride instead
and for Hannah I grab some Skittles because a bell schedule
on Zoom is more grind than it seems and Google Meet isn’t working
but at least she’s not on a Chrome book
(tell the District those don’t work)
and I braid the challah and mix the egg wash and wonder if
I should have made a brisket and if we need
to wear shoes
It is 7:25 while the candles burn and I am in the kitchen
clearing dishes scraping plates water running
when he calls to me from the other room
and no he is not kidding
while I wrestle bits of honey-lashed crumbs staying behind for
one last look at
normal
*with thanks and apologies to Frank O’Hara for both form and function
