a life
My husband, Michael Bonner, died suddenly and unexpectedly in the late afternoon of May 24, 2019, a few hours after I spoke
with him from Italy. I took this photograph the following day, on May 25th, before friends found him in our Ann Arbor home.
I was told on the 26, on another gloomy and wintry Sunday morning in the northwestern Alps. Michael was a historian of
the formative period of Islam, from pre-Islamic Arabia to the creation of the caliphate, but his passion was classical music,
which he knew profoundly. He played the violin and the viola, most often in quartets. We were married for 29 years. Initiallly,
this project was a way to preserve and share his life through the objects which embodied his soul, his minds, his skills and his wit.
Now it narrates both his life and my grief.
Gressoney St. Jean, Aosta Valley, 25 May 2019
Michael
gate to Hades
maelstrom
trees of life
two ghosts
cemetery
emptiness
looking up
things
generations
in the dark
the last concerto
transition
bird song, score
flight
libraries
literacy
life to life
after dreaming
emptiness
gentle lion
shadow in the Vallone del Salza
maze
Vigato violin
idle bike
shadows of music
silence
the world, suspended
violin & viola
illuminations
dawn, Pinter Valley
hope
Michael & Daniela at the Rifugio Pastore, Valsesia, 2010
photo by Helmut Pufflimbo
You came
You left
Thirty years
in between
I remember
your coming
your going
Your ghost
on every step of the staircase
to your library
between book and book
Your ghost
fingering the strings
of your violin
no longer in tune
I don’t feel them on my skin
They don’t break my frayed cocoon
You remain
outside
The chasm
ever wider
between life
and death
Ann Arbor, 9 February 2021
a lead wall
rises
right by me
from the grassy earth
soaring
infinite
lost
to
my
sight
through a blanket of clouds
hovering
ominously
the texture of my soul
Ann Arbor, 13 February 2020
poetry, interrupted
Poetry
did you leave me too?
Where did you go?
I cannot summon you
You are not at my command
Wishing to die
today of all days
a stunning day
sunny and dry
greenness refreshed
by last night’s storm
I worked in my yard
cut dead branches
picked up debris
spread mulch
swept the patio
All in the name
of waiting for bed time
while the summer sun
still casts short shadows
onto my Venetian blinds
Fleeting shapes segmented
by the misaligned blades
tree trunks, interrupted
leaves, interrupted
Poetry, interrupted
Ann Arbor, 11 June 2020
grief
Her mind teetered
on the abyss of recollection
then snapped back
to the safe land of amnesia
like the sensation of almost falling
or slipping away
gray matter
falling inside the skull
_____________
This dull, sparkless gray matter
perculates
through the crevasses
between her
and her-self
eager to erupt
perhaps
_____________
A volcano
long dormant
long forgotten
bearer of
red death
or new life
______________
Many centuries later
Ann Arbor, 2009/2012/2020
a dime
Life turns on a dime
the saying goes
which I take to mean that
the dime spins on a point on its grooved edge
My dime spun on that bleak Sunday morning up in the mountains
Spring in the alluvial plain, winter on the rocky slopes
Green and white
And the pervasive Macbethian grey of the invading clouds
I
alone
pacing the cold living room without crying
I
crushed
diminished
shrunken
I
suspended
in limbo
a never-never land
without
time rest flesh desire life death
I
alone
as was decided a long time ago
when the dime began spinning
slowing down
finally
coming to rest on that Sunday morning
Ann Arbor, 18 June 2020
marble statues
In cemeteries,
statues rise from their pedestals
like stalagmites from the underworld
extrusions of irrepressible lives extinguished before their time
As they fight to regain the surface of this earth
their vitality dissipates
their colors fade
their blood drains
They turn into white marble or gray stone
frozen in pitiful shapes
bent over or extending their arms like the victims of Pompeii
Felled once again
in plain sight
Ann Arbor, 2 July 2020
lontano/vicino
Amore mio
dove sei andato?
Lontano e vicino
Ti posso toccare
Sto dalla mia parte del letto
La tua, vuota,
quella di un corpo dissipato, esausto, ridotto all’osso
Tu che eri corposo, spesso
una piccola montagna
che mi rubava le coperte
Agitato, in lotta con le lenzuola
Mentre io, anima inquieta,
dormivo tranquilla
lasciando il letto al mattino come l’avevo trovato la sera prima
Un letto matrimoniale
metà pieno
metà vuoto
Non ha nessun senso
Semai troverò il coraggio
lo sostituirò
con un letto da una piazza e mezza
adatto a una vedova
_________
Quando tu sia veramente morto
Quando?
Chissà quando?
Ann Arbor, 23 March 2020
outside/inside
To live outside oneself
looking in
to an id
prey to torturous screams
childhood tears morphing
into breathless sobbing
craving for annihilation
To live inside oneself
looking out
to an ego
counting steps not to fall
down the stairs
collecting dry leaves
remnants of a rainless fall
picking up branches torn
by yesterday’s high winds
Ann Arbor, 16 November 2020
the guardian of things
I am the guardian
of things
past
a small wooden hen
(an attempt at carving?)
inherited
from my mother in law
I believe
(or from someone I never met)
So many
things
in my home
inherited
Why
do I feel
responsible
for them?
books
photographs
China charger plates
painted by my mother, M(ichael)D(aniela)
in the center
(divorce was not an option)
glasses
reproductions
of Chinese vases
Japanese tea sets
Dutch dinner sets
small Inca statues
North African artifacts
a late-Roman menorah
(purchased by Michael in San Francisco)
LPs
never heard
(I need a record player)
CDs
music scores
quartets
trios
Wagner's operas
backpacks
canvas bags
(I thought I lost one - I almost freaked out)
more photographs
more books
More Michaels
More mes
The weight
of the past
My little clay statue of the Madonna
(or just a young girl)
head slightly bent
downcast eyes
palms upturned close to the body
in the gesture of acceptance
vulnerable
silent
like the nuns in the monastery of my youth in the Savoy
mountains
I am many
Souls compete for space
in my soul
Things compete for space
in my soul
Am I turning into a thing?
Maybe
I will become be the guardian of myself
Ann Arbor, 6 May 2020
wall
Every night
before falling asleep
I stare at the photographs hanging on the wall
“Generations”
I call them
Michael’s family and mine
all in black and white
I wonder
why
I want to hold on to them
and take them to Italy
with me
Just to hang them on another wall
and stare at them
every night
before falling asleep
Ann Arbor, 25 October 2020
dark matter
I thought on
what
I can see
and what
I cannot see
I can see stills
from my life
flashes
that appear and disappear
through squinting eyelids
The squinting
crushes memory
and the unbidden expressions of the subconscious
Artificial inner blindness
averts despair
gives way to dullness
__________________
All is black now
I cannot see
I do not want to see
I lie in state
trying to feel dead
any stimulus a threat
to my precarious apathy
___________________
In this cocoon
life abates
turns into
the subdued motions of my involuntary system
___________________
An illusion
of not being
teetering
between light and darkness
______________
A speckle
finally lost
in the unseeable ocean of dark matter
Ann Arbor, 13 October 2020
silence/voice
finding
what no longer wants to be
seen
felt
touched
what separates us
silence
sneaking between words
spreading the words
space grows
between black marks
on the white page
space speaks of you
quietly
silence is your voice
Ann Arbor, 11 April 2021
rain chain
water dripping downward from ring to ring along the rain chain
like the tears digging furrows on my face
early summer evening on the porch
memories of things past
windows open Leonard Cohen is flowing out
what a mistake for my heart
the suburban front yards are green so unfathomably green
a few people walk by erratic
Hopper-like creatures
birds are saluting a greying sunset
Michael is buried in my heart
who will bury mine?
Ann Arbor, 27 May 2020
birds, singing
What to do with the pain
that slips in
interstitial
between one note and the other
from Messiaen
Catalogue d’oiseaux
notes unnoted
verses of creatures
who follow their speech
I listen to them without understanding
But there is space
even for me
between one trill and another
ascending
descending
imperious
ecstatic
joyous
afraid
a trill
unrestrained
which flies to the heights
an agitated whisper
among the leaves of the forest floor
There is so much space
for my suffering
The notes
are the leaves of the trees
the blades of grass
the branches almost in bloom
the filigreed brambles
the embroidery of climbing vines
There is room for the pain
mute
It slips in, the pain
between one sound
and another
In the silence it expands
anxious
between two notes
The birds don’t mind
if I occupy their silence
with my pain
The birds sing
a trill
then await a response
Without a response
they rest in their silence
If I respond
their silence becomes
my counter-song
my silence
their counter-song
There’s so much room
for me and for them
2 April 2020
translated from the Italian with Michael Fahyfireflies
Bright dots, tonight
Souls escaping from the underworld
Flickering surprises
They never stop at the same point
They leap into their grands jetés
They blow out
Some of them fly so high
like Icarus
But where do they go?
Do they rest?
Do they die?
Do they mock us?
daring us to find them in the summer grass?
daring us to follow them into the tree canopy?
They burn their wings in the moonlight
and vanish
not even streaks of shooting stars
They fall back, unseen, into the underworld
Ann Arbor, 2 July 2020
castles
Life without Michael
is life in a castle
inside another castle
bigger, taller
with so many rooms
I easily get lost
I could venture out
of Michael's castle
taking one of the long staircases
that lead to some other room
in the other castle
Lost, by now
wandering
wondering why
I don't climb down
the steep, but coarse walls
where I could catch
a corrugation
an indentation
the spurred corner of a stone
an iron brace
that keeps the castle from tumbling down
But I am a prisoner
of a castle within a castle
I cannot venture out
I loop on myself
like an Escher drawing
up and down and across
– and back
Lost anyway
What matters
is moving, somehow
not reaching a destination
Ann Arbor, 15 February 2020
writing
I no longer know
what to write
When the thought of Michael
appears unbidden
my eyes grow wide
frozen
by the effort to repress
everything
I cannot even blink
Ann Arbor, 14 September 2020
tango lesson
Something reminded me
of Jacob fighting with the angel through the night
A tango in Sally Potter’s Tango Lesson
I want to fight with the angel
I want to dance a tango
A dance to the death
A dangerous embrace
torsos locked
a four-legged creature
a holding
a falling
Ready to go all the way
______
The music stops
The dancers stop
We each go our own way
The angel and I
______
The night is far from over
Ann Arbor, 7 February 2021
bodies
I make room for
you
I take up the right side of the bed as I used to
In an image of
you
I seize
your body
and try to extract it
and witness its tridimensional transformation
I want
your body
to appear
lie in our bed
sit in
your chair
make the staircase creak
an obstacle
I need to work around
in our small kitchen
I can still see
you
and hear
you
and read
your mind
your body
is vanishing
it no longer parts the air when
you
walk into the house
it is no longer just
there in
your studio
I didn’t have to see or touch the mass of
your body
or hear
your voice
your silence
was tridimensional
it emanated from a reflective surface
waves spread outward
until they hit me
_________
Now the space is clear, transparent
Your chair
unused
Your books
well aligned
No papers strewn on
your desk
No folders left open on the sofa
Ann Arbor, 23 April 2021
space
Space between
the bed and the bookshelves
the bed and the ceiling
Space beyond the window
closed now—it’s winter
Space between the notes
of Arvo Pärt’s Gloria
Space
on the left side of my bed
Michael’s space
This space I embrace
saturated, suddenly, impenetrable, opaque
An obstacle between
myself and the other side
The air thickens
it glows heavier
A form appears
invisible
An immaterial mass
strong, quiet presence
That cannot be ignored
That I do not wish to ignore
We no longer
share any language
Only this space
speechless
Ann Arbor, 5 January 2021
tigress
pain raises its head at every turn the name of a composer, Mozart, yesterday
a gesture, moving the Aaron chair to make room for pranayama a glance at our
wedding photograph, pushed aside too late not to feel its power the announcement
of a violin concerto, quickly silenced the cranking of my soul the screeching
of animal entrails obediently shaped into strings the animal spirits escape their
manipulated containers bearers of disorder threat of disharmony
a scream of repulsion
a tigress pacing her cage from one wall of heavy metal bars to the other through
the door behind her come imprisonment and survival chunks of meat tossed
into her prison her guardians will come through that door if she stops eating
they will drag out her powerful carcass she will roar one more time they
will retreat, respectful? or fearful?
will I leave the world of the living with a roar?
will I fade in the fog descending along the mountain side?
Ann Arbor, 15 November/4 December 2020
Eurydice
I am Eurydice seeking
Orpheus
Beyond the door—ajar
the underworld
rhythmic steps on a slanting path
Why can I see in darkness?
Someone is singing
It is not me
Someone is dancing
It is not me
Someone is invoking—Orpheus! Orpheus!
It is not me!
A shadow
casts a shadow
over me
Am I returning
to the overworld
without
my beloved?
A shadow
casts a shadow
ahead of me
To that penumbra
I surrender
Ann Arbor, 14 February 2021
walls
Sliding my hand along the wall
while going downstairs
My walls
Michael’s walls
Anything
I would do anything
to touch him
to feel his skin
his body mass
as I did
when he came to bed
grunting in protest
as he put on his (useless) C-pap machine
I embraced him
my arm barely long enough
He should have shed some weight
He couldn’t any longer
His enlarging heart was also doing that to him
______________
Semi-smooth walls which were never alive
All I feel is my touch
Dead containers of previous life
Ann Arbor, 27 July 2020
your voice
Micetta! Micetta!
You called
in your Italian voice
I already knew
tulips awaited me
A conspiratorial moment of intimacy
A smile for a smile
Warm eyes for warm eyes
What
vanishes
from my memory
your gait
your sitting on a chair to untie your shoes
taking off winter jacket, scarf, wool cap, gloves
Your voice
still with me
the pealing of small bells
the higher notes in your baritone
the rising pitch on the “e”
___________________
For how long?
Ann Arbor, 4 April 2021
presence
The air is pervaded by presence finer than a spirit
a whiff of non-absence not-nothingness
I sense it
because it parts to let me through as I walk by
Like a crowd parts to let a famous one wade through unimpeded
I feel no friction I need not make any effort
I walk lightly in the silence of our home
in the semi-darkness of the hallway
in the heaviness of my soul
Ann Arbor, 2 March 2021
voice
-less-ness
the esses of silence
the fullness of
absence
The voice
first
the craving for a voice
The lacking
then
the search for a voice
fruitless
The fullness
last
of emptiness
I am this void
Ann Arbor, 4 April 2021
voices
I can hear
my mind
creaking
down
like the rusty gate to the vegetable garden of my childhood
perched among the meadows at the top of the shady hollow
I can hear
the brook
springing from rock to rock
lapping faintly on the edge of a small pool
I can hear
my solitude
murmuring
Voices
I turn around
to see who is calling
It is only
the rustling of words
that speak to me of those who are no more
New York/Ann Arbor, 4-6 Januray 2017
snow
snow
descends
through
the
grey
luminous
sky
large flakes
each branch almost the mirror of another branch
each column the mirror of another column
each needle another needle
each prism another prism
large flakes
come to rest on a blue blanket forgotten on the balcony
silent
the air around the snowflakes is heavy
too heavy for the birds who rest unseen
white black
vanish into shade
Is the stream still singing?
I dare not
breath
I dare not
create my own cloud
I dare not
be alive
almost
awe
of a world
between earth and heaven
the snowflakes
close
my eyes
seal
my lips
Ann Arbor, 15 December 2020
rain
It rained again
just a while ago
briefly
I want the rain
to go on and on and on
Calming
soothing
A lullaby
for my welcome sleep
Sleep
“perchance to dream”
We all know it’s dangerous
And yet I’ll take the chance
Michael is Michael
in my dreams
solare*
gentle, warm,
a positive presence
A bit distant
perhaps
as he was in life
__________
I failed
to break the spell
We loved each other
across an infinitesimal chasm
The tips of our fingers
almost touched
like our gods’ fingers wished by Michelangelo
We remained
slightly apart
a whisper of separation
now turned
into my longing
*serene
Ann Arbor, 8 April 2020
peace?
What really haunts me
if you want to know
is the peacefulness of Michael's countenance
when I saw him in the mortuary
— or whatever they call it —
peaceful, relaxed, young
unburdened, unconcerned
as faces cannot be in life
younger
I kissed him
gently as instructed
He was at peace
Maybe just a miracle of muscular relaxation
unintentional, unwilled
Almost smiling
He left me behind
in the valley of tears
Oh, I know he did not mean to
I am not angry with him
It is just a fact
He is at peace
sharing in the harmony of the spheres
and the music of eternity
While I remain on this earth
a prisoner
of the cacophony of wild emotions
I want a last desire
that he thinks of me as much
as I think of him
But that is not possible
Thinking of the dead is our task
And theirs?
If their spirits are dead, they are dead
nd if they are alive
they partake of us no more
alien, distant, unfathomable, unreadable, unrecognizable
Ann Arbor, 15 February 2020
remembrance
I remember
up in the mountains
slowly hiking up
rhododendron carpet
hidden rills trickling
between moss and rocks
early morning sun over the eastern rim
a diaphanous fan of rays
diamonds and pearls
on sinuous tendrils
birds darting and singing
one step after another on the long path
traced by cows for humans from another time
up and up we went
to the barely tilted field above the tree line
rocks dragged to the edges
a craggy alp turned into a grassy meadow
nothing is left
rocks rooting again in the earth
grass and lichens climbing
The two of us alone up there
spectators
in the ancient theatre
serenaded by birds
sun-shadow-sun ballet
I remember
Ann Arbor, 20-21 January 2021
holding
you
My hands
this far apart
gently closing in
as when I cradle a baby’s face
I slow
down
and cease
sensing the solidity of the void
soft and firm
A caress
A gentle cupping
My ethereal lips drink a kiss
I remain frozen
my cradling hands
my parted lips
my smiling eyes
searching for yours
Ann Arbor, 9-10 April 2021
the guardian of time
To live off the past
off the love of the past
past but present
insuperable
indestructible
painful
mine, mine alone
infinitely sweet
source of great sorrow
great unhappiness
intensity of feeling
full life
a tear
gliding gently down my cheek
cools my warm skin
the eye
cleansed
surrenders
the body
weary but not arid
still produces
the serum of life
the sign of life
of the rising spirit
the silent lament
for whoever was
for us who were
28/29 April 2020 – our 30th wedding anniversary
translated from the Italian with Michael Fahy