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.