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