‘Lazarus I’: A Poem by Jason Hunt

Lazarus I

—for Jason Peter Smith (1963 – 2025)

I closed my eyes and you were gone.
I wasn’t ready. Didn’t think
we’d never share another drink
or sing another Springsteen song.
And now I wish I hadn’t missed
your daughter Charlotte’s wedding feast.
I would have stayed an hour at least
had I foreseen Fate’s latest twist.
You woke me up—I mean the call
from Sue—to let me know you died.
I read the message and I tried
to wrap my head around it all.

They said it took you by surprise
on Thursday? Friday? I forget.
Then Saturday the sun just set.
You didn’t get to see it rise.
Some say the world will end in ice.
Some say fire, some say mud.
Turns out it’s cancer of the blood,
leukemia to be precise.

And so I sip this glass of Scotch
and strum the strings of this guitar
and wonder if and where you are.
Perhaps some rooftop, keeping watch
over your family. Perhaps
your spirit, soul, or essence rose
or sank or scattered, no one knows.
God keeps that secret under wraps.

I pound these keys and try to think
of everything that I forgot
or will forget, or maybe not,
depends on how much Scotch I drink
in hopes of raising Lazarus—
not you, man, memories of you
that fade, like photos used to do.
Is that the fate that waits for us?
To disappear both from the earth
and from the minds of those we love?
And what if nothing waits above
or down below? For what it’s worth,
I never did believe in hell,
and heaven, well, I wouldn’t wait
to wake behind some pearly gate—
the tale that none returns to tell.

But if there should be such a place,
I’ll pray for you—but mostly for
the kids and Sue. They need it more.
A few for you, though, just in case.
I guess I’d best call it a night.
I’m sorry I let it get too late.
Back then, we wouldn’t hesitate
to lose the hours so we could write.
But like you lately used to say,
“We just got old, and man it sucks.”
Back then, we didn’t give two fucks
for sleep—we’d write the night away.

Not now. If I don’t get at least
a solid seven hours of sleep,
I’m worthless. I can barely keep
my eyes from slowly drifting east
away from Ithaca, headlong
through Binghamton to 17
to 84. I haven’t seen
that house in Northford for so long.

Remember Christmas there, that year?
The crazy tree my father cut,
and all that wine, I wonder what
he’d have to say if he were here.
He’d probably say, “I’ll miss that guy,
old Jason Smith,” and then he’d find
his old guitar and play the kind
of song that makes you want to cry.

But he’s not here, and you’re not here,
And me, I’m tired—too tired to think,
Too tired to pour another drink,
Too tired to shed another tear.

Jason Hunt lives in South Carolina. He is an Organizational Change Management consultant. In addition to poetry, he has published songs, short stories, and two novels—A Midsummer Night’s Gunfight and So Lonesome I Could Die.