With only a vague notion now
of mobility,
she recalls a grey Samsonite suitcase-
she played endlessly with the straps
and pockets-
and remembers thinking ‘how small I am,’
how she could curl up inside
and be carried far, far away.
The luggage tags could be changed,
she knew,
to read wherever her heart wanted.
She practiced the writing carefully
on leaves and gum wrappers.
How many afternoons were spent
packing and not getting anywhere?
How often was it
a tawdry Howard Johnson’s
instead of a
lake near the mountain
of her dreams?

how the chords flew
against the window
like a storm
but from the inside
and if he but knew
what it felt like
cresting
quietly,
he would want to devour
all I have
instead of transcribing
what he thinks he knows
into legible figures
set then filed away

The wind blew from the west
this evening
and I felt the weight
of carrying the tune myself
when it used to be so easy
to hear your song
carried through the valley.
I can’t quite get it right,
the mixture 
of laugh and bass
with clear words of love
decanted through nettles.

sweeping past anything blue,
training my eye to see shadow
dare I count steps
to reach beyond the small point
on the horizon
marking the end of all I know

I don’t know what “constant” is
– I have no context
for anything that remains

how gently did we hold
the wind before it shook
and left us laughing
at our folly
– there is no constant
where shadows crawl
and there is still the unknown

how is the heart
of a dark continent
pounding within and calling
as I sit so carefully
on my porch,
waving to neighbors
and taking tea?

why is the “someday”
I read about
never here?

when I place a note
inside my book
to keep my place-
to keep my heart from floating
above me
like a rare twisted pentecostal votive,
it burns inside
but is imminently safer
than opening
and casting my fiery breath
too far
across my pastoral scene

what if it’s too late
when I finally arrive?