The Wrack Line

Courtesy: Benedetta Falugi

They came and they asked me.
I showed them the riverbed
when the water is low—
the rough eye agates,
lumps of chert.
I reminded them
that God is in the find
not the searching,
the moment when your eyes,
scanning,
rest on a bit of something
not quite right.


You Have My Permission To Stop At Any Time

We are past bearing—
come up to the edges
of bodies of water,
then turn and walk away,
skin stretching to encase the parts
even if they don’t work.
400 of the eggs inside us will mature.
A granite voice cracks:
our love is six feet under,
unendurable as an unhinged moon.

Thirteen minutes to the end,
in the hospital,
you whisper in his ear.
When your mother leaves
to tell the nurse more morphine,
a moonflower blooms.
We are asked to remember.
We are asked to forget.
It is more than flesh can bear.

You dangle,
web a suffering hand.
You throw away a calendar
full of circled dates.
Your father cries on the phone
from six hours away.
It is not to be borne.
Leaves fall.
They cannot be reattached.