She painted me a quartered window
dominated by the airy whites and browns
of the top right quarter, where I felt myself receding.
The road was drying unevenly, and the clouds stood above it
as you would stand above a thread.
Where has my mother gone? There was a moment
yesterday evening when my mind leapt
holy with desire
then for an hour this morning I cried, and now
there is now: the icy lake, the houses, people
changing slowly into other people. Yes. I love
reading, and exercising, and love;
seasons; moving. The past and the present
loom like equal calamities above the hill
I’ll climb in my too-warm clothes,
my face gradually reddening, to show that I’m still
as brave as I was when I was a child
and the room went still with words I understood
but didn’t understand, and felt
it was somehow my role to heal.
There was a brother who melted from my arms
back into the walls of the womb—
the people who have them
relax on their balconies, with drinks.