I called out to my grief and drew it toward me.
I held my grief and gently rocked it.
Shh, I said. There, there. There, there.
A referee struggles to maintain control over a 2nd grade basketball game.
I had not imagined drowning
was the way to reach the shore.
Flat lines of black clouds
rolled over the Everglades, pelting the land with cold rain,
then, briefly, almost impossibly, hail, over the wetlands and dredged
fields, reminding us how fragile the grapefruits and oranges.
Open the envelope quickly,
O this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is sign’d,
O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother’s soul!
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
I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
To dust it — not often enough. To stare at it — too often.
To never open it anymore. Keep his ashes hidden.
If you really want to cry for somebody,
why not cry for yourself?
Why not cry for all of us,
who are just passing through?
How we stumble, are glib
in the face of our fear
when we might show
our own raw heart
Watching Clouds Over Corippo (2019) feels something like seeing a series of Romantic landscape paintings brought to haunting life.