Les Murray, “The Last Hellos”
Don’t die, Dad —
But they die.
This last year he was wandery:
took off a new chainsaw blade
and cobbled a spare from bits.
Perhaps if I lie down
my head’ll come better again.
His left shoulder kept rising
higher in his cardigan.
He could see death in a face.
Family used to call him in
to look at sick ones and say.
At his own time, he was told.
The knob found in his head
was duck-egg size. Never hurt.
Two to six months, Cecil.
I’ll be alright, he boomed
to his poor sister on the phone
I’ll do that when I finish dyin.
•
Don’t die, Cecil.
But they do.
Going for the last drives
in the bush, odd massive
board-slotted stumps bony white
in whipstick second growth.
I could chop all day.
I could cash a cheque
In Sydney or anywhere
Any of the shops.
Eating, still at the head of the table,
he now missed
food on his knife’s side.
Sorry, Dad, but like
have you forgiven your enemies?
Your father and all of them?
All his lifetime of hurt.
I must have (grin). I don’t
think about that now.
People can’t say goodbye any more.
They say last hellos.
Going fast, over Christmas,
he’d stumble out
of his room, where his photos
hang over the other furniture,
and play host to his mourners.
The courage of his bluster,
firm big voice of his confusion.
Two days in the hospital:
His long forearms were still red mahogany.
His hands gripped steel frame.
I’m dyin.
On the second day:
You’re bustin to talk
but I’m too busy dyin.
•
Grief ended when he died,
the widower like soldiers who
won’t live life their mates missed.
Goodbye Cecil! No more Bluey dog.
No more cowtime. No more stories.
We’re still using your imagination,
it was stronger than ours.
Your grave’s got littler
somehow, in the three months.
More pointy as the clay’s shrivelled,
like a stuck zip in a coat.
Your cricket boots are in
the State Museum! Odd letters
still come. Two more’s died since you:
Annie, and Stewart. Old Stewart.
On your day there was a good crowd,
family, and people from away.
But of course a lot had gone
to their own funerals first.
Snobs mind us off religion
nowadays, if they can.
Fuck them. I wish you God.
Notes
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knepherbird reblogged this from ayjay and added:
Big thanks to @ayjay for posting these Les Murray poems. This one’s a gut-puncher.
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portraitoftheartistasayoungman reblogged this from ayjay and added:
Don’t die, Dad — But they die. This last year he was wandery: took off a new chainsaw blade and cobbled a spare from...
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