“As I float over the shadowed northern world, I think now that we all go off into darkness, bit by bit, piece by piece, part by part. We all disintegrate into our words, our sentences, our paragraphs, our narratives. We scatter our lives into photographs, letters, certificates, books, prizes, lies. We ride out the light until the records break one by one. We sit out the days until the sun gets dimmer and dimmer.”
—Dallas Wiebe, “Night Flight to Stockholm” from The Paris Review’s Object Lessons
[light]
"Saturday, august 31, 2003"
by Dallas Wiebe
Tomorrow everything will be all right.
I’ll come to the cemetery
and bring you home.
I’ll prepare for you a meal
of oranges, apples and peanut butter on bread.
I’ll pour you a glass
of carbonated water.
While you eat,
I’ll tell you how lonely I am.
I’ll tell you how empty my life is.
I’ll tell you that prayer changes nothing.
You’ll tell me about the darkness
and how you like my flowers.
You’ll tell me about the cold
and the endless hours.
You’ll tell me how much
you miss your family.
I’ll tell you I’ll come soon
to join you,
not to be impatient.
You’ll say,
“Don’t hurry.”
