David Schweizer, 1950-2024
Blue baby, of the first generation
whose hole in the heart could be closed
in an operating theatre
where the show must and did go on,
you thought yourself lucky as a sickly
child, who got to spend whole days
reading long books in bed.
An early obsession with Louis Seize
and the costume drama of Versailles
made you the director you were,
blocking actors in your head.
Or so we believed; you told good stories.
Long after you stopped dyeing your hair
and even your beard blood-red
and began to look your part
as a gray—no, a silver—eminence
who signed off e-mails “with MANLY love
from your SILVERY D,”
nevertheless you remained the boy
slipping out from flamboyance,
dressed every day in animal prints—
zebra tie, leopard sneakers, tiger
blazer, ocelot ascot. Not
just one, and often all at once.
Now it’s one of your nephews who
directs us to a pew in the chapel,
now it’s your beloved PAL
Caleb making his way through tears
to the pulpit, to sum up the years.
David, how can this be?
Strangely, you are not in charge.
How, on this frigid January
morning, as we stand in the snowy
churchyard where they took your body,
could there be already a hole in the heart
of the earth so large?
This is drawn from “Cameo Appearance.”
