towards Amy

‘Permanent disequilibria threaten’

(not clouds on the horizon

or lightning seen through

your forehead

or the tide rising higher

than you think it used to

 

but significant perturbations

of your spine’s

timeline and a stranger

in your ear). Now you

turn to me with that

shattered look you’re a past

 

master of, your dress creased

from too much sitting,

your fingers

crossed. It’s the age

of middens again,

mountains of shells

 

from which the flesh has

been filched, and what’s

left of your blue eyes

berate me.

But what can I do?

I ate my fill long ago.

 

The pain passes. I see

you again as you

want to be seen, the heat

from your body

cogent,

and now I remember

 

how you tore your clothes

for fear once of

iron ships

under stars,

Morse code

and icebergs.

 

These days I hear you

singing in half

familiar tongues

before I see you

rising through bodies

not yours, the weight

 

of the trains

you have traveled in

not holding you down.

I gape at your effrontery,

back from the dead with no

qualms. Perhaps

 

you have a chance to

live again. It has only

been me

holding you back. Come,

put your hand here

in my fire and be free.