Coda

I was a little bit pregnant

& every night

the womb grew

more primitive

& refined.

A small cadre

of carpenters

set up shop,

affixing

the child’s limbs

with metal hinges

and tacks.

~

I had

my wooden

artifacts,

the books

on ritual

practice

and divination.

But one

tires of ambition—

one’s own,

especially the ambition

of others.

~

There was no end

to all this trying

to conceive

a harbor

outside

my childhood

nightmares—

the bedroom

flooding

faster and faster,

bedstead flush

against

the ceiling.

Even so, I boxed

the angel,

shattered his glass

jaw & didn’t he

bless me.

~

Then the world

rose

from its stupor—

my stupor—

like a light

triggered

by coins

in a metal box

under a painting

in an Italian church.

The body

darkened

by candle,

arms and legs

tangled in soot,

assumptions

and uprisings.

The singing rooms

set above

the crypts.

~

Before this,

days still

as the wordless boy

you slept

next to every

night.

Not loving him

but staying.

Loving him

but waiting.

Another

two

hundred

cans of soup.

~

Morning.

Years later.

The beloved

makes coffee.

How useless to try

and name

this feeling

of relief.

But at least

you know

the difference

between what

is over

and what

it is

you’ve finished.