by Hazel Byers
I have discovered what it is to live on a hill: in the blue
world of first awakening, you were in my arms. Under
the quilt and the light of the window, a stirring. When I
lowered myself onto you, thinking this, this. The Canada geese
are southbound over my rooftop today, their bodies a
series of Vs and neighboring V-shapes, making their way
to a less familiar home. With my neck craned upwards
I watch them go, thinking of my own familiarities as they
branch off, changing form, becoming something unknown.
Out there, the lake has frozen over. The sun settles over
Michigan again and in the alley behind the house a boy runs,
his shirt ridden up, showing the world its own soft underbelly.
I call my mother to tell her I lied, I had really seen it all as it unfolded:
the love, then the rupturing, your mess, how you storied me
with the house that would never be, the evening sun brightening
its windows, its suspended dust. I cannot imagine there
are years after this. I run in the dark, looking at the moon as
it climbs over the southwest hills. Out there, fly geese.