Where I am the sky has been trying
to clear all morning.
At noon the sea is sparking
green, a giant coin flipped and
falling, and there are warnings:
a plane towing an ad for cigarettes
(pleasures are dangerous),
the sun’s fuzzy mouth sucking the day back
in through the haze.
I am in search of the perfect stone
for you—as if it would help!
What good are stones to you
now, rose or black,
pointed, smooth?
Why remind you? Why be
heavy in your hand?
Where you are—
the truth is I don’t know
where you are.
Maybe the city:
lunch date with a noisy woman,
rainstorm, the umbrella forgotten.
And more phone messages!
All afternoon you prune your list,
and I can see you crossing us off,
peeling back layers, working
down to the ribbed, worn
pit of your self, then
setting out, tons lighter,
like the prow of a boat without
its boat behind, and ladyless
in front: no more breasts to the wind,
no more long, carved hair.
Don’t worry. Already it’s weeks
I lie in bed mourning your loss,
already I remember this summer
like a summer gone, and myself
like a woman who rented here years ago—
her radio and sunscreen, her stack
of paperbacks. It was she
paddling the warm wave of getting away,
she slender, on a diet from love,
who was free. Free!
Best self, lost sister, I start
to forget her, wondering
if at the corner of your day
my colors don’t still go up,
a small disturbance, a tat of flag
nicking the morning at the edge of your view.