After Monica Cook

I’d call you by name. I’d say sister,
but the river is too wide

for this lifetime. I’d say
vehicles matter most. I’d say

the way there is concrete
with things: twine, a receding tide,

a could-be continent of islands
punctuating the sea. Here

everything is artifice: ducks gather above.
Below the dark erases the boots

on your feet. Our house becomes
a boat. It travels to the story’s other side.

The dancing and music stop long after
your last reply. And yet, I’m left with this

fragment, the V our arms make.
I know neither how to keep you up

nor where to safely place you down.
This process called trust

keeps happening.