he is dead.
Above clouds, almost in night’s realm, I know nothing.
Clouds flow under me as flocks of angels
shielding me from the darkness below,
waking me from all knowledge.
From knowing I ever had a husband
nor knowing anything at all under cloud.
Indeed I am new born in veils of blue light.
Used to just a picture in every room without the scan
of hazle eyes, no swallowing a brick.
And just like that, I am used to living in sky
as if my house has been standing here all along,
without its floor ever dropping away.
And here’s what I tell myself:
Life must stay porous. Pathways must open
so the mouse can wiggle free
and the wild geese fly in.
No matter how lonely I am, the world
offers itself to my imagination.
Mary Oliver believes this. I will believe her.
Swear allegiance to her.
But this will take patience. It will take time.It will take this palm fast on my heart.