The way the Bay stretches before me
when I step
over the yellow hill of Oyster park—all filmy lilac—
and a necklace of sparkling jewels
light the San Mateo bridge—
my heart trips—a soft bobbing
against my ribs, legs turn to silk.
My arms swing wide out to the side
as if I might alight.
So drugged am I by the great expanse and
strong evening breeze,
and the sky ablaze as if heralding
a great triumph, a great gratitude.
Forgotten is this morning‘s walk
as the widow,
teary on a muddy trail
between a steep hill and a waterless creek
who stops beside a brown leaf dangling
rag-like beside the fresh green newborns,
who follows the deer tracks
to the edge of the lake,
who waits for a breeze to nudge her
to the next moment and
cries because crying
gives her something to do
about this thing
that nothing can be done about.
It’s eternity— eternity is the problem.
It falls out from under you
like a sink hole.
My man who loved me with a
mother's patience is no more.
His green eyes far from light.
His comb, wool socks--
the closet full of things
that outlive him.
Death is a crime.
If you are alive and glad to be alive,
death is theft, a mean assault.
And if you have no faith, there's no appeal.
No one rises from the grave.
But he is dead, my dearest, we've been
disconnected by every measure.
A box of bone bits centered on the table,
the one he passed every day for years—
now his altar.
So while he is nowhere, detached from me,
in measureless space,
I prepare for the rain that's forecast,
plant the bulbs he meant to plant,
make his dog stop sniffing his shoes.
