Except for the shirt pulled from the ocean, except for her hands, which keep folding the shirt, except for her body, which once held their bodies, my sister wants everything back now-- If there were a god who could out of empty shells carried by waves to shore make amends-- If the ocean saved in a jar could keep from turning to salt-- She's hearing things: bird calling to bird, cat outside the door, thorn of the blackberry against the trellis.
Up late scrolling
for distraction, love, hope,
I discovered skew dice.
In the promotional video
you see only a mathematician’s hands,
like the hands of god,
picking up the dice one at a time,
turning them over and over
before returning them
to the hard wood table,
where each lands with something
between a whoosh and silence,
face up, face down,
some faces lying on their side,
as at other archaeological sites.
I bought a set of the patented dice,
each with its own logic and truth
and aleatory uncertainty—
at home alone I rolled them
across my dining table
to pass the time,
and time with its own logic
passed. Dear god.
I haven’t been touched in so long.