I had not imagined drowning
was the way to reach the shore.
We looked among orchard trees and beyond
Where she took arms against her shadow,
Or harried unto the pond
The lazy geese
I like it best when the memories are everywhere—
and I stumble over the ghosts of wooden train tracks,
trip on the spot where you used to do push-ups
To this day, my sister and I wonder if Dad
Got it right. “Fear,” he explained years later,
“Is sometimes the only tool.”
You know the broken history of things,
the alchemy of stones, a world masked
in the blind light of God.
To dust it — not often enough. To stare at it — too often.
To never open it anymore. Keep his ashes hidden.
There must be a Russian word to describe what has happened
between us, like ostyt, which can be used
for a cup of tea that is too hot, but after you walk to the next room,
and return, it is too cool
Lost my soul in the shuffle.
Got a self instead.
Not a fair deal, not even-Steven,
What killed her was the talk, the empty eyes,
which made her long for the one person in ten thousand
who could say her name, who could take her home,
giving her a place between Auden and Apollinaire