This sorrow trips your steps like stones on a path,
always loosening, always falling, preventing a climb.
You will not emerge from her stone chamber. You,
even if you could, would not forget her subterranean voice.
Her bright call will never return, nor will her eyes
open in their sockets. Alone with her gemstones you cry:
emerald, iolite, rings for fingers now ash, for an urn
turned and emptied in the sea, a will like yours.
Show me your tear-scarred eyes, show me your face:
say to me, I was robbed, the best was taken
because one thing was missing, because the time
was a moment too short. Did I lose her I loved
because someone was dull or for no reason at all?
Because some fate failed did I lose my child?
I give you keening, silence, my hands for tears;
I, too, know that stone voice and the chasm of these years.
- ► 2016 (151)
- ► 2015 (62)
- My Dead
- Late Summer Poem
- The Girl @theParisReview Says Uncool
- An excerpt from "Mirror, or a Flash in the Pan"
- New Life 5 (Mistranslation of Joseph Brodsky)
- Autobio, for Robin Williams
- The Course of Grief
- 100 Thousand Poets for Change day is September 27!...
- Izdubar (ekphrastic on Carl Jung's Red Book image)...
- Exorcism (Found Poem)
- AWP 2015 Panel: Daughters of Baba Yaga
- ▼ August (13)
- ► 2013 (27)
- ► 2012 (32)
- ► 2008 (15)