In this sunken spring, as in winter, as in fall
and in every season that our teacups brim with sorrow and jubilation,
our fumbling, fragile hearts are as children
grasping their drink tumblers, spilled and milky.
Sweet fingertips reach for the infinite optimism
of the stars and night clouds, hopeful that we might give respite
to our liquid, puddly organs, our earthbound regrets.
We ask, in each story hour, we wonder,
in the moments when we catch ourselves merely breathing,
where our beloved go after they have nestled as memories
in the warm chambers of the living.
We imagine how they might while away
our earthly measure of days, playing gin rummy with someone else’s grandmother
or thumb-wrestling with the angels who, with their delicate porcelain thumbs,
are no match for our lovers and sons.
Perhaps waltzing with long-forgotten contessas, ladies of historical footnotes,
or telescoping the heavens and the opal moon on Copernicus’ coattails.
Maybe these are gauzy dreams, dressings wrapped around
our wounded, splintered hearts, with their quiet inner drumbeats,
aid to the healing of our tender organs, while we traverse the terrain
in gravity boots along a curvature and grade, warmed by a distant sun,
our inner spaces dusted with the enchantments
of what love has left us.
from this, and other forgotten things ({bee + spool} press 2007)