by John David Muth
Alone for the first time in months,
I sink into the strings
of an adagio,
the final movement
of Mahler's Ninth.
I listen to this piece
on solemn occasions:
the loss of girlfriends I have loved,
the death of my mother.
It grieves for me,
expresses what I cannot,
even when I’m by myself.
How did he feel
as the subject of a dying empire,
witnessing a way of life ready to end?
I am beginning to understand.
He died three years before the Great War,
never read of poison gas or barbed wire
never lived to see Austria crumble
never saw the bread lines
of the Great Depression
the rise of fascism
the murder of his family and friends.
Maybe he was lucky.
The violins wail
and I think of my country,
hundreds of thousands dead
economic collapse
leaders inept or insane.
I am almost glad
those I lost years before
cannot see what we have become.
The coda lingers:
the last complete thoughts
of a dying man who didn’t want to die.
Resignation fades to silence
the old CD stops spinning
stairs creak from footsteps.
My wife is back from her walk.
I hide my red eyes
in feigned sleep.
John David Muth was born and raised in central New Jersey. He has been an academic advisor at Rutgers University for twenty years. His latest book Dreams of a Viking Wedding (Aldrich Press) was published this year.
