The Present

Silence, a swallow

stuck in the throat,

centers on outstretched

hands: they hold

a small, checkered pillow

(starred by a slight

imprint) where

the coal of a thumb

rests—my mother’s.

It’s all that’s left

from the plane crash.

What lengths of light,

what loopholes

and longitudes

of sound and time

have bent this thumb,

scurrying in its halo

of flame to reenter

here, home, lighting

on this pillow,

extending this gesture

of care, this caress.