Rumi
In a dream I asked him
What can I do
if I can’t change it
And he pointed
to the graves
and whispered witness it
Copyright © 2026 Joseph Fasano. Reprinted with the permission of the author.
Now I let it fall back
in the grasses.
I hear you. I know
this life is hard now.
I know your days are precious
on this earth.
But what are you trying
to be free of?
The living? The miraculous
task of it?
Love is for the ones who love the work.
Think of the moment before the moment.
Before recognition. Before the nurse saw
the boar’s scar coursing down his thigh
where the world had first entered him
in the forests of childhood. Before
Penelope. Before his battle for her heart.
Think of his moment alone on the beach,
his sailors running up to the village
where girls stood wringing spices
from their hair. Think of the gods saying to him
you do not have to praise ruin anymore;
you do not have to praise what is lost.
How you imagine him is how you enter things.
Now when I go out, the wind pulls me
into the grave. I go out
to part the hair of a child I left behind,
and he pushes his face into my cuffs, to smell the wind.
If I carry my father with me, it is the way
a horse carries autumn in its mane.
If I remember my brother,
it is as if a buck had knelt down
in a room I was in.
I kneel, and the wind kneels down in me.
What is it to have a history, a flock
buried in the blindness of winter?
Try crawling with two violins
into the hallway of your father’s hearse.
It is filled with sparrows.