Saturday, May 03, 2008

And Though We Know It Does No Good

All morning, changos
cross the yard. Otherwise,

a lizard on the branch--
his throat, a red balloon.

And at the botton of the hill,
a boy. Surely, the bus

has come and gone.
(This has nothing to do

with her.) Meanwhile,
the clouds won't give.

The roosters won't
stop crying.


Someone says, Sirena, and
you know the word

from the story she told
slowly, without anger: Why

my skin, lifting her sleeve--
Look--a finger in the air

to say, Listen. Then
pointing out the window--

Over there, for hours
in the sun--where she'd swim.

They said, You'll grow fins
and won't come back.

Which is what it means.
Which is what happened.


From shore they saw
her sink--a girl.

What does it matter now
if her dress hung on a branch

or bloomed about her?
And who is left to say?

She lies on a bed across the sea.
This was well before

the pier was built or washed away,
plank by plank. The wind--

you can almost hear
the wind. They must have called

her name. The must have called
and called her name.

--Blas Falconer, A Question of Gravity and Light

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