My throat festers

with ill-planned wishes.

This afternoon, there

is so much gone: the harbor;

the nightship. My eyes

water with leftover heat.

How strange this heat is,

how strong, how my hair

hangs loose, untethered.

It is easier during the day

to pretend that I miss nobody,

to miss as seasons dissipate,

to clean the kitchen with little

regret. I recognize now

that within language there

awaits the threat of not

hearing the whistle as it blows,

so far away, like a string of bees.

To live through the days

as though the bee-stings

were still so far gone: when I

sat like a rediscovered doll

atop the lap of my grandmother,

to spot the birds. In those

days, she & my mother

still spoke, made eye contact with

one another. It’s nobody’s fault:

only that, yes, there are times

when one’s dog breaks, & I

forget to listen to new music,

& I forget to sway like old-timers.