As I read Sinclair's words, I can picture myself, clammy fingers clasped around a steaming coffee mug, stressed forehead pressed against the cool glass window that overlooks my backyard where young deer come to devour my garden. The smallest noise will startle them - so I stand perfectly still, and so do they, deep eyes shot to mine when they hear my shallow breathing.
This poem is a reflection of our vie to hold on to those who have passed. It's something we can't help doing, even if we know they are physically gone. It is a mourning poem, and inasmuch it doesn't always make sense. Neither does death. In the second section, Sinclair strains to see the dead in the light, in the deer, in anything concrete to hold on to. In the third she admits "there is no such thing as the dead." because they are truly gone. Sinclair relinquishes her previous hopes and begins to accept the truth: "And that's what hurts./The clarity."
This poem is a reflection of our vie to hold on to those who have passed. It's something we can't help doing, even if we know they are physically gone. It is a mourning poem, and inasmuch it doesn't always make sense. Neither does death. In the second section, Sinclair strains to see the dead in the light, in the deer, in anything concrete to hold on to. In the third she admits "there is no such thing as the dead." because they are truly gone. Sinclair relinquishes her previous hopes and begins to accept the truth: "And that's what hurts./The clarity."