We Each Are Almost | Chasm

We Each Are Almost  

which means I can still list every reply and the storm and twice
of what happened that October. The empty house which means we were there
in her duplex and one dawn and thousands of times I had climbed
her stairs. That year her family photo was filled with rebellions
and she could continue to sketch it worse. Which means we felt
other times such trembling and a year has passed. I remember shrubs stayed
dark to the bird rhyme, her pretty lip swimming. Which means we tallied
the usual reasons for a mind to claim every should and we came up
with zero. The hawk and the pink mouth of love. Which means
I always fly off, and when I do I remember to look down though I cannot
name the numerous geometries and blush of corn. The plane crosses
the middle of Birmingham or above rams in the canyon. How peaceful
the air from above. Which means it helps to look out. I have an eye
for rivers and big enough swatches of land. I want to believe there is
a point to her sighs. Which means I went every two months like a church
or a nervous system. And then when I didn’t have to, I stopped.
Corners and goats, the butterflies like sultans multiplied
our dirt road which means we all must sometimes watch
from the wrong side of distance. I dream about views I know.

Chasm 

The sun breaks through snicked blind slats.
Again and gone. Waits outside
in scented grass. I wake in a bed not
my own; my hands sift along
rib and marsh, like a snake biting familiar
edges. Enough and then look at photos on my phone: faces
of what I could hardly forget.
The bathroom mirror wants me
to see the year incessant in my face: his death
shaped from hers, and the recent
scored months of my husband. The clanking
that gathered him from a possibility to a smaller view. What broke
and unbroke him, I can’t remember. Whatever was
to happen rabbled on and we let it. But I won’t
worry here and I won’t
form clear comfort either. For example, I see
I still can’t trust a stable field,
a middle room, a bridge. Naming the shape
of things my eye can take:
clouds blown through sky to a hole, leaves
at the window. Bearable slowdown.
Everything is after an argument and a geography.
A car passes.
A faucet turns on in the next room.
Only lately, this seems like salvation.