for this, I am grateful. This elegy
doesn’t want a handful of puffed rice
tossed with mustard oil and chopped chilies,
but wants to understand why a firefly
flickers off then on, wants another throatful
or three of whiskey. This elegy is trying
hard to understand how we all become
corpses, but I’m trying to understand
How to understand permanence, when there is no such thing?
In a wonderful conversation from Kenyon Review (made even more poignant because it is with Jake Adam York, who passed away just nine months later at age 40), Faizullah talks about the origin of the elegies she wrote for her sister: “When my sister first passed away, I silently spoke to her often. It was a way of conjuring her as much as it was a way to comfort myself.” Silent conversation eventually evolved into several elegies, like this one. She compares them to the layering of palimpsests, another wonderful image, and discusses the impossibility of testimony and conflicts of remembrance and guilt.
The poem (which is available online, thank you, New England Review) starts and ends with jhal muri, if I remember correctly from my culinary explorations; it’s a street-food snack of spicy puffed rice seasoned with chilis and mustard oil. This closing of the circle seems particularly appropriate to an elegy about permanence, as if it creates its own permanence – or at least the possibility of permanence inherent in a circle – to compensate for the lack of permanence of anything on earth. We do go on, somehow.
Whenever I see couplets, I now think of two people, and more often than not, that turns out to be the case. Here, we have sisters. Faizullah was born here in the US well after her family immigrated here, but the poem seems written from Bangladesh, where her sister died: “Across two oceans, there
is a world in which I thought I could live / without grief.” When you love someone, there is no place without grief; but there is also no place without love, even in the grief. The love shines through here.
As an elegy should, it turns from past to future: “How to look down into the abyss without / leaning forward?” The experience of grief must itself be a moving forward. I’d never thought of it that way before. It feels so much like the past, yet it is indeed motion.
The poem ends with a snippet of one of those mental conversations Faizullah might have had with her sister, a conversation that puts a point on it: in spite of our protests, the pain is something we crave, because human connection is necessarily linked to pain, and to blot out the pain is to blot out the connection.