Kristina Marie Darling
My letters, tied with white string in the hull of
a ship that never reached the other coast.
My letters, which startled the very bird I was
trying to describe as I stood before the impasse.
Now that bird will never come back. We may
die writing each other from adjoining rooms.
The ocean grew larger and larger.
The distance between rooms smaller.
We hear their voices in the corridor, an
aperture a mouth to cover and close.
This heap of ash, this terror.
No barge empty enough to carry it all.
The last snowfall the last thaw.
Your letters widowed into dust.
Now, a little burial.
Your grief even smaller.
Did you place the bones near each other.
Here or here.
When I’m not waiting for the ships
I listen for you.
When I’m not waiting.
In such a light how could you say
No, there is no ship that waits like that.