Beyond Beyond

Is a corner glimpse inside the Eye worth the word to speak about it?

Is knowing as human knows worth a poem to write about it?

For I am afraid I belittle the insight if I linger too long, draw

perimeters around it, squeeze it between walls, build

a fortress to encase it. There is no special reason, except

sometimes the Ego, wishing to perpetuate its single-minded

legacy, pulls it together in one fat lumpy prize. It begs a legitimate

question, this Ego: Is there a beyond beyond? When mother comes—

as she surely does, neither sailing nor soaring nor gliding nor floating—

when mother comes as one party to the dead, I know her presence

like palpable waves breaking on shore, as tough rind I am now

breaking into. Every anniversary she sticks around, sometimes

for a week, sometimes for two months, sometimes for a day.

I see her. Not like a flute’s high voice or guitar strings singing or

a stream’s vocalizations over rocks, but as mother risen among

the living. She is my mother, still—that reality as I am still her

daughter. But even this awareness—my mother’s gesture toward

the living, her transient status among us—resonates beyond

a diurnal turning, I do not diminish my own participation in her

return. She is my guarantee to parlay her gift into future investments.

Her beyond comes to me, just as the Eye reflects intermittent

patterns of my own disbelief, hoping I am more than particles

I cannot see, do not feel pulling me apart, radicalizing my own

particle smasher. In supposing I am merely variegated compositions

of subatomic quarks—those most elementary of particles—will

they know my own existence as an up-down charm, maybe a little

strange from top to bottom? I am not relieved of my duties because

of a glimpse. It is a covert shot in the dark, a mandala dream—

a persistent hope. Still, my mother is of that crowd. At least

I know her when she comes. I recognize her journey beyond beyond.

Now, I am sitting on this mound of earth, watching the doves kissing

on the wires above, gravity working its pleasure however much

the quarks bash my inner self. But someday, beyond the Milky Way

I will meet Mother. There is no franchise there. No hedging on a

transcendent leash. But never mind. Everyone has a religious bent.

1 comment
  1. This poem sent shivers through me, into me and pierced my heart. Just this week, as I finished the paperwork to donate my body to a medical college and read the chilling provision that it be done “within five hours of my death'” I wondered if I would see my mother waiting “beyond the Milky Way” and how would I greet her, she whom I seldom greeted when she was alive.

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