US HIGHWAY 50

And after that the road turns west
toward mountains, and toward clouds
that may be mountains, a saffron line,
penciled fluid, flat and straight.

Now comes the very sleep of travel
and the shimmering tribe of dreams,
fireflies dancing in a bottle,
murmuring to the sighing sun.

Buoyant lingers time’s illusion
and its cruel and useless beauty,
without hurry, without fear,
without the pain of destination.


THE WEDDING PICTURE

I can see you in the picture, Mommy.
By the night-light, I can see you, swirled
and garlanded, coming down the aisle.

My dress is white and garlanded, and I
am coming down the aisle. I am coming
down to get you, my darling baby girl.

Why did you leave so soon? I must have hurt you
being born, hurt you coming out.
I am sorry if I made you cry.

I will kiss your tummy, that lovely slippery
tummy. I’ll make you laugh, touch you warm
between your legs, between your every toe.

I would have climbed down to you, but
your coffin had been closed, and there were shapes
in that darkness, and pale sound.

Daughter! Daughter! Help me down!
I will keep you safe from darkness
and pale sound.

Why did you go?
Where did you go? Why did you leave me?
What is death that you died?

Daughter! Daughter! Take my hand!
I will sit there on your bed,
I’ll brush your dark and tangled hair.

I’m sleepy now.
I’ll make space soon.
My dolls won’t mind.