He predicted froth, and geese
took to the sky like a hurricane.
I trust my captain. He told me
when I turn over on my stomach in sleep
to think of loneliness. I draw a circle
and put an X through it for here, meaning ship.
All I packed was an empty pillowcase and aspirin
and rain I collected. The geese turn their bodies
into clouds for me to pour the rain.
Nights I tuck my fingers into feathers
and repeat a song I was sung as a baby.
Between pines, a pause
in the forest, transparent, yet visible,
like how no, in its nothing
is still an answer, is the water
I could not give her, the wish
taken out of the well; and her bones
left to vanish in their circle
become the circle, are the clearing
I approach. And when at last I am alone,
I ask her death to hold me, the way air holds up
a bird above its home. Or how my seat, when I stood up
became empty, and remained—in those moments
when she asked and I walked toward her—both an end
and a waiting,
and an end to the waiting.