Leslie whatley

On the Death of John Ashbery

all those sneezes and shouts, the snatches of crazy
music written on the sides of tacos, the soup kitchen
mumbles and junk tumors, the noises set adrift
into the vortex: none of this ever allowed you
to unstrap your ego and let it swing, perfumed
in the night, the glossy black of the deep space
nebula-stained empty. none of it allowed free
speech to grow any wilder or softer, though youths
as fair as ancient catamites, biblical concubines,
lay hypnotized by your voice. even those elderly
puzzled at the gates of dusk wandered in your verse.
it was mostly hogwash, one knows, the listener
in the presence of the postmodern moment, tuned
to the radio, twisting the dial, painting billboards
in the sky as the government compiles its lists and academics
launch surveys and rocketships. all this was a mission,
a violin in a high window that released its sighs
upon you like a lover—the whole earth over
with all her tangled karma, the expanding mirror.

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Leslie Whatley received a Ph.D. in English from Florida State University and has published stories, poems, and essays in Yemassee, New Southerner Magazine, Hotel Amerika, Atlanta Review, and elsewhere.