Ada's Will, by Glenn Freeman

Jene Highstein, Ada's Will, 1990, photography by Christine Henske, 2012. (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

​Ada's Will 

It rises from the grass
like a black flame 
or a brush thick 

with ink, more 
event than actual 
object: the world 

as perspective, axis, 
lens: early autumn leaves 
lie scattered at the base, gray sky

above. It turns out 
whatever we say is false, nothing
to hold the weight 

of what's left unsaid 
the way the color 
of absence pours 

into this monument, wing, 
tongue, flame 
of empty space. The object 

may be gone, but not 
the subject: 
imperfectly polished 

and pointed like the tip 
of a wet brush, rising 
toward its final word. 

Glenn Freeman

This poem was first published in Keeping the Tigers Behind Us, Elixir Press, 2007.  

Glenn Freeman has published two collections of poems, Keeping the Tigers Behind Us and Traveling Light. He lives with his wife and two cats in small-town Iowa where he teaches writing and American literature and watches the tomatoes grow.