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