Poem to be Left Behind

The things I want you to know will streak
behind me, contrail. Think of it 
as me singing my way to God. I sing

what I’ll carry. The moments I didn’t notice 
were the most holy, translucent because 
I’d lost my body to the world. Heaven 

will be a montage of those moments,
“life more abundant.” But of what I remember,
here’s what I’ll take with me like ricrac 

on my angel hem. The squat 
of a toddler studying grass, the chuff 
of an early-morning snowshovel, sparkling

stars. Heavy 
books and ragged cheap ones, splayed. Lonely 
ceilings at 2 a.m., slammed doors. 

A deep breath at a mountain summit 
or after giving birth or before 
the argument begins. 

Music. Top-of-your-lungs car-radio at dusk 
with the windows down; down-
on-my-knees hymns whispered bedside in grief,
choirs, my children’s piano lessons, 
disco.

Gorgeous years and hideous hours—I’d trade
none of it. It passed too quickly, 
but only in retrospect.

Aspen.

Watching a teenager haul himself out of bed to do battle 
with the world once again. Clean sheets, tall tumblers
of water with lemon, aunts laughing in the kitchen. 

The making of things out of words. Scent 
of my husband’s neck, of the scalp 
of a newborn—my newborn! Scent

of the canvas of a tent 

inside which all my boys are tucked with me safe 
just as the rain begins. Listen, Loves, I have had my turn 
 
at the dance, God my partner. Sweet deep muscle ache 
I’ll take with me, unresenting. Know this: I’ve had
my share; I’ll sleep soundly and well.

Darlene Young is author of the poetry collection Homespun and Angel Feathers and Here and teaches writing at Brigham Young University.