Departure

  1. A crude bowl, collection
    of cast offs fashioned, loomless,
    by beak—only a sieve
    for the falling rain.

  2. With dagger, rope and pen
    she taught us to harness that
    celestial satellite—teller
    of time, puller of tides—and
    now, I wonder:
    Have the rains been kind
    to the banks of the Styx?,
    Will the wet wings of Nephthys
    be shelter enough?, Whose mother
    is next?

  3. That space
    between the brows
    makes room, raining
    a stillness through
    charged coils of organ,
    belly and bone—
    finally.

A Memory

I’ll meet you
in that cave, the one
you dreamed of — stone, 
cold, a memory of the sea. We
were born here, I’ll tell
you. Your eyes will climb
the walls, the
installation of time’s lapping
tongue. For a moment, 
we will worry,
but be reminded that beginnings
(or endings or both) are void
of light until that instant
we transcend; the ocean
depositing us–foam
on the shore.