Poem Thoughts: Myth, by Natasha Trethewey

Myth, by Pulitzer Prize winning poet Natasha Trethewey, is a perfect poem, to me. Every time I read it, it moves me. It’s hard for me to continue on to another poem after finishing this one because it offers more than just a casual reading experience. It’s a haunting meditation on loss.

Myth, by Natasha Trethewey

I was asleep while you were dying.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,

the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking

you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant forsaking.

Again and again, this constant forsaking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning, sleep-heavy, turning.

But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in–still, trying–

I make between my slumber and my waking.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.

In examining the poem, I realize that if it wasn’t written in form, it wouldn’t be as emotionally effective (sometimes “free verse” is not the better route people!), because the parameters of the poem reveal the speaker’s own restraint, making the poetic medium seem that much more necessary. Even the repetition causes the speaker to appear as though she is at a loss for words, like this experience is barely accessible by language. Her utterance has been reduced to a series of repeating, almost as though (to evoke some psychoanalysis, oops) she is attempting to return to the womb or a space distinctly maternal, a space distinctly alienated from language.

The poem is so cautious and careful it’s chilling.