Alms for Oblivion Some suicides kill not only themselves but also their identity, traveling to a remote place, getting rid of clothes, rings, wallets, whatever, so that the body— if anything is found besides a skeleton that can’t be traced— is nameless. Instead of heaven or hell, some of the dead chose oblivion. Perhaps the best way to be resurrected is to be forgotten. Sometimes oblivion is the gateway to great fame. Consider the case of Tutankhamen. Or better yet the cave paintings of Lascaux, unknown for more than twenty thousand years the walls are still alive with spear-bearing men and horned animals.
—Submitted on 09/24/2022
William Heath is the author of Steel Valley Elegy (Kelsay Books, 2022). His poems have appeared in Cortland Review, Massachusetts Review, South Carolina Review, and Southern Review, and other journals. He lives in Annapolis, MD.
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Editor’s Note: The series title A River Sings is borrowed from “On the Pulse of Morning,” the poem read by Maya Angelou at the inauguration of Bill Clinton in 1993.
