It rains all morning
in Frogner Park
a sheet of green fog
crowds orbit Vigeland’s
granite figures
like dancers in a merry-go-round
bodies slick as wet marble
leaning into one another
raising each other up
like torches
trying to remember
this is what a
body can be
the pile of a family
a thrash of lovers
an angry weeping
boy
naked and alone
in the center a monolith
the figures
collide and try to come
together as if all
our pain comes
from our apartness
A lone woman
under a red umbrella
watches the figures
like they are a show
the great lawn breathes heat
into January air
we have more than enough you said
and in that instant
I knew it had always been true
we have made this religion
of turning skyward to say thanks
as if you weren’t
right here next to me and love
the red umbrella