She storms in the kitchen finding bits of things to stop her mouth, wish it could stop the words spilling out. How could so many well-dressed people have their heads so firmly wedged up their
Fists should swing toward imaginary foes while the real ones all live among us, work at Walmart, never liked that effing little dog.
Everyday drawn to the water where the white birds fly so low they seem to touch the silk-spun current which wants a body to believe it is blue-constant even though we both know this is just a trick of light, just-reflect-the-sky-vigilance, the clouds, the trees, occasional sun hold still across the surface until the wind kicks up little waves, waves above the deep, deep color of something technically translucent if you were to cup it in your hands, if you could cup it in your hands, if hands could hold the sea.
In the dying light a boy nurtures wild cats, feeding them, watching them, pouring water out for them.
You and I just watch him. As usual your words anchor me, which feels a little unfair for you, seeing that I am the old one. I love your strong voice shared by all the women from your tribe, and just as when you were a little girl I want to call them to assembly, muster them for us, say, see these kids? The ones you have loved all these years? Be there for them, please,
No matter what.
A parsec* is a unit of length used to measure astronomical objects outside the Solar System equal to about 3.26 light-years. What, you ask, is a light-year?
A light-year is the distance traveled by light (in a vacuum) in one Julian year (365.25 days), not a unit of time, but of distance. Abbreviated as “ly,” you could say it is love you. Love you for light-years…lyfly, forever.
They are out there somewhere still, three, sometimes four, figures and a dog who has long gone, gone past the snake on the path, gone past all the wounds of time, leaving snapshots of a good dog all the while the children howl full wind
They knew no shelter from the start
Miles of lonely nothing
No stones, bread crumbs, or birds to
Guide them back
Most days I try
To plunge into the same body of
Sun on the surface
Always blue beneath
Unplumbable like oceans
This place I go to see you
In the tumbled pieces of ill-formed autobiography
You, always you
Two kids on a borrowed dock, I push away saying going to look for turtles who should be there, noses just visible, green leaves breathing in and out. Can’t find them today-swim back, watch leaves drift tiny rafts on water cups the sky, reflect the blue sky, deep green water you laugh, lift your head back, river-legs-dock-children-trees-hill-home.