Little Day of Resting
All week a dry strumming and an hourglass I held
in my hands, until I held a phone
in my hands and it hung
on its little revolving.
The news is a tree that lurches into the window.
The tree has no end, but the ecstasy
of the earth. So many people are dying and it hardly has anything
to do with the sad way I see
out my window.
Our grief has been decided.
Elsewhere, a boy rolls in the sand, sizing up home.
A tigress no longer hauls through the dust but leaves lineage,
and my man and I, we sit still loaded
with sleep and make a constellation
of those we remember
so much. I am lightheaded in the sluggish gray
as we coax them back: the mothers, the strangers. Their lost voices
make me want to clean the sky of its eyes.
Our palms many times find another place to be, and we are quiet
until we are satisfied with another sunrise
and we rise
and enter the bell of it.
Wait at the kettle, searching for melody.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 57 | Spring/Summer 2021