All morning we’d been discussing death.
I checked the field guide to know
it was the Spicebush Swallowtail that landed
in my hair and not the Mourning Cloak.
Maybe I'm superstitious,
but it was the same day I learned about families
in Ireland, their sweaters patterned to identify
sons and husbands--each unique stitch--in case
they drowned, a map of where to send the body.
We passed a garden of calla lilies.
The Mourning Cloak rested, wings
the color of storms, yellow lining the edges
of waves, blue crescent moons
sailing to the rim.
And I wondered if this is what the fishermen saw,
the ones who were pulled under--ocean
moving forward, slice of moon to the East,
bubbles of breath pulling upward
where sun should have been.
|
Odds and Ends Index | Home
|
