Sarah & Lila
Seven years ago I wrote myself a letter
about a cork tree that swallowed my voice.
I wanted to capture its rough boughs, tough
but limber shape, even the exact time of day
& shade of sunlight. It’s a bad letter — wanders,
babbles, strays. Never gives that tree a name.
♦
In the cemetery, look for the husband’s name.
I finally find you, Lila — stone letters
freshly carved, marble bench facing a pond for
serenity. I say what I came to say & my voice
makes black turtles dive. It isn’t your birthday;
dodging your family feels too tough.
♦
Crows flick their cigarettes like street toughs,
rolling their cuffs & inventing slick nicknames
for us squares below. I am not in the mood today,
they’ll have to shoot dice without me. Let ’er
go, daddy-o, croons the one with the voice
like a father. Like whose father, I wonder.
♦
Lila, I am not here for you — I often wander
the graveyard on mornings when it’s tough
to be around the living. Their eyes have voices
& yet nobody’s face will say my name.
You’d have known what I mean, maybe better
than I do. But no. I’m not here for you today.
♦
The chapel seems less dreary when the day-
light squeezes through stained glass windows
the size of pizzas. Loitering punks litter
the corners with butts & wrappers, stuff
trash into the pipe organ, scrawl their names
& scram when they hear the caretaker’s voice.
♦
Yes, I listen, but I do not hear your voice.
That’s okay. You said what you needed to say.
I’m not the kind to turn the wind into my name.
The end is the end, our wispy souls don’t wander
looking for ways to make amends. Tough
luck. When she says she must leave, you let her.
♦
Someone keeps leaving daylilies. You liked tougher
blooms. Lila, I can’t continue blocking out your voice,
rereading letters we wrote under different names.