”Requiem with Coal, Butterflies and Terrible Angels” by Traci Brimhall

Credit: detomix.com

The idea of death often conjures unique images for different people. While death is inevitable, we all envision it a little differently, and we all deal with it in different ways. This poem, “Requiem with Coal, Butterflies and Terrible Angels,” is one of my favorite pieces of poetry, thanks to Traci Brimhall’s striking and colorful imagery. The way Brimhall talks about death is incredibly visual; she paints a saturated, beautiful, sometimes unsettling, picture of what it means to die.

The first stanza hooks the reader immediately:

It is the first anniversary of your mother’s death,

and we are going to Mexico to see the monarchs

wintering in the fir trees. Our first night in Mexico City,

we cover our stained pillows…

She continues further down the page:

…You’d forgotten El Nigromante

in San Miguel where the exhibit Todo Angel es Terrible–

photos of dead wrens, dead mallards, a dead finch

in a dead hawk’s claw, hollowed boned messengers

who try to tell us that to die is different than we supposed

and more beautiful…

Poet Traci Brimhall

Death is everywhere in “Requiem with Coal, Butterflies and Terrible Angels,” seeping into each sentence and into the reader’s heart. It takes different forms — the death of her partner’s mother, dead creatures in an exhibit, death as it is supposed and what it might actually be.

The poem ends with the following lines:

When we return, the town is celebrating the dead,

tossing flowers and candy. Men and women dance

to keep their bodies honest, girls stand on the sidewalk

with their arms full of oranges, and death walks down

the street in a bridal gown. I tug your sleeve and say, Beautiful,

she’s so beautiful. A storm rolls over the town, people

huddle in doorways, and death lifts her veil and looks up at the sky.

O doctor, O eater of fire, O man afraid of the ocean,

we are the lost children of paradise. All we can do is love

death’s wet dress and the coffin in the street,

the marzipan and wild dogs, our kingdom come,

our flesh gleaming with rain and a failing light.

When I first read this poem, those last three stanzas left me breathless. There is an eeriness and a beauty to Brimhall’s words and the intimate world she allows us to step into. Death, in this poem, feels colorful and mysterious, scary but also hopeful. We all must die, but there’s truly nothing we can do about that. Perhaps that’s actually reassuring and beautiful, in its own way.

This poem is part of a larger collection of poems titled “Rookery,” by Traci Brimhall.