with thanks to Rita Robinson
Even considering
the sputtering sky
and the caving between
my shoulder blades
where my heart
should fill the body’s cage,
despite the lack
of song today
and regardless
of angry voices
that scuffle
and riddle
the gutters outside,
even then I read
in a letter her closing words,
so much love here
right now, she says,
for you, for us,
and slowly,
as if just awakening
in a foreign country
in a too short bed
surrounded by
unfamiliar sounds
and slants of shadow
and assaulted with
exotic scents,
I hint by hint
come to
recognize myself,
and know
with irrational
and utter certainty
she’s right.