Lilacs, Music, Boy
Music really does heal all wounds!! I will believe that until the day I die. —BLK, 8/18/2020
I conclude with a sound
that is a boy in a field with his sketch
pad penciling lilacs across
a face. A boy, by his own remedy,
trusting to drown out the warships & human
energy. But music is not an escape
to somewhere else—& why this somewhere
else is not the real thing when
certainly it is? A garden everywhere
is a slab of concrete. No window
to leap from. No final wind exiting
the body. Those with foresight care little
for the atmosphere & what it listens
to, but as you would, Brother, you attempt
to bandage the sound. You hide, first, the noise
from the music then realign the proper sense with
the proper task. Death is scarcely viable & time
is trembling. So are the lilacs. Maybe now
you can go home.
Susan L. Leary is the author of five poetry collections, including More Flowers (Trio House Press, forthcoming 2026); Dressing the Bear (Trio House Press, 2024), selected by Kimberly Blaeser to win the 2023 Louise Bogan Award; and the chapbook, A Buffet Table Fit for Queens (Small Harbor Publishing, 2023), winner of the Washburn Prize. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Indiana Review, Cream City Review, Diode Poetry Journal, Smartish Pace, and Verse Daily. She holds an MFA from the University of Miami and lives in Indianapolis, IN. Visit her at: www.susanlleary.com.
