For the first time in a long time I’m listening
to the radio – I am new to this
city and familiar with only my body – the DJs are still beat up
over the unearthing of jazzy Lazarus.
I am too.
I know the song too well to change
stations, would feel uneasy, which is to say
uncomfortable with myself to not hear it through, to hum it
along these streets, yellow-tinted like a body bag
at a bad art installation.
The lights help everyone see, though it bleaches
the night sky, the night sky trembles
in saturation, as though out of focus. The song trails
off in a wave of phase,
and the DJ starts to give
commentary, but I think I already know
what he wants to say, what Lazarus already said
when he was a lady,
or maybe not. I turn it off.
I’d like to think the DJ went beyond the grappling-
with-mortality spin, and said the only truth
we know of Bowie: that he was glamorous,
yes, his dying included. I am left again
with my new life, my old self, bundled
in expectation. It was like the first time it rained,
and all the locals complained
about how pitiful it was, how it wasn’t enough,
even though it had taken all the streets of San Jose. The mountains
for that week
were green.
