it’s a beautiful fall day
and Zoe is dying
but nobody knows.
the world is crisp October, air and streaming sun glowing
red against leaves, red like Zoe’s hair, tomatoes
fire engines autumn
red like blood, red like fire,
autumn’s palette: Zoe’s hair,
Zoe whose
name means life
(oh, hell, was it simply too much to live up to?) who did this thing to you?
or was it really you, clearheaded as you’d never been,
that day, calm?
what did you feel? that like Christ, it was yours for the taking?
your calling, as you once expressed?
did you think about that, and say, hmm, well, I’m 33 the road ends here?
(I know you Zoe,)
you called me your sister and clambered into my bed when you were lonely,
sometimes you held my hand, we would talk and smoke until the room was a ridiculous
and toxic cloud, did you feel so unimportant?
or was it just that you had to
make meaning of your life through death,
that which eventually takes meaning from everyone?
it was a beautiful fall day, and one thanksgiving we all ate at Zoe’s
gathering festively around her grandmother’s long wooden table.
Marko was still alive then, hoovering eagerly the ham
how long ago? I don’t know. worlds ago. oh, baby, Marko was alive then, too.
we ate, we laughed, I wasn’t thinking then “you know what statistics say, suicides are usually on a holiday.” I wasn’t thinking, hmm, look around closely at everyone, I wasn’t thinking, and then there will be none.
and where to run with these emotions, if not to you? you with the flames on your yoga pants, giant sunglasses, tomato red fire engine red hair, the goddess books and wide blinking blues, you with whom I sang Lucinda
Did you love me forever, just for those three days?
what went through your blasted hurting heart when you
thought, yeah, I’ll just make a noose here on my closet door
you were always good with tools and knots and what not,
for a girl, self sufficient, solid, rooted and strong with just a small touch of
awayness
and you knew you were loved,
how many times did we have to tell you?
oh, but you were so away and I couldn’t see you going
I knew, sort of, but not like this. wouldn’t have guessed
you weren’t going to be able to handle it, I trusted you without question
to do what you needed to do,
and make it through changed and dazzled.
Then the lid came off, and I couldn’t tell what was happening to you.
now what have you done? who did this to you? oh, girl, what have you done now?
oh my Zoe
you have made me sad
and I am so very tired of sadness, love, so really tired of
weeping, gnashing,
of missing the dead,
et tu, beauty
Lorette C. Luzajic is the author of The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos, a 2006 collection. Her poetry has been published in hundreds of journals and small press publications like Modern Poetry, Rattle, Canadian Women’s Studies Journal, Grain, The Fiddlehead, White Wall Review, Quarry, Kairos, Spillway, and more. She also writes a column called Fascinating Writers for Book Slut online.
4 Responses to “THE MEANING OF ZOE • by Lorette C. Luzajic”
Comments
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December 12th, 2008 at 6:28 am
Well, that’s a sad story for a grey winter day. I really liked the opening three lines…
December 12th, 2008 at 7:44 am
I thought this was sad but also frightening – how little we know what’s happening even to those we love – what may be going on in their head.
December 12th, 2008 at 2:37 pm
A five from me. Every Day Poets is really publishing some first class poetry and this is one of them. Very moving.
December 17th, 2008 at 8:49 am
This was so sad… It really evokes the feeling of confusion from Zoe’s friend.