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Late Afternoon Stroll on the Cliffs

As usual, Death sweetly slips her arm in mine—
& we take a deep breath from the eucalyptus breeze.
We both worked honestly at our jobs: all day Death
destroyed traffic with wailing ambulances while I killed
hours & lines on eight-&-a-half by eleven inch pages.
We’re fast friends by now, Death much older of course,
but there’s no hierarchy between us: we’re both taking
a break from it all, glad to watch waves collapse on rocks
& pelicans dive-bomb fish. I try to be sensitive to Death’s
guilt: that whole pandemic disaster she can no longer
control. She’ll soon betray me too—like she will you.
I know. But today the gulls are silver angels etching
great cursive blessings in a perfect sky—so Death & I
make believe we believe that, & amble on.

Laure-Anne Bosselaar is the author of A New Hunger (Ausable Press, 2007), and Small Gods of Grief (BOA Editions, 2001); which won the Isabella Gardner Prize for Poetry; and The Hour Between Dog and Wolf (BOA Editions, 1997).

About Laure-Anne Bosselaar

Themes

About this Poem

“In French, as in other Romance languages, death’s gender is feminine: la mort. So I kept her gender in this poem written in English, in which I describe our daily and friendly walks on bluffs that overlook the Pacific.”

—Laure-Anne Bosselaar

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More by this poet

Rooms Remembered

I needed, for months after he died, to remember our rooms—
some lit by the trivial, others ample

with an obscurity that comforted us: it hid our own darkness.
So for months, duteous, I remembered:

Laure-Anne Bosselaar

2015

Room in Antwerp

Dust covers the window, but light slips through—
it always does—through dust or cracks or under doors.

Every day at dusk, the sun, through branches,
hits a river's bend & sends silver slivers to the walls.

No one's there to see this. No one.
But it dances there anyway, that light,

& when the wind weaves waves into the water

Laure-Anne Bosselaar

2013

Stillbirth

On a platform, I heard someone call out your name:
No, Laetitia, no.
It wasn’t my train—the doors were closing,
but I rushed in, searching for your face.

But no Laetitia. No.
No one in that car could have been you,
but I rushed in, searching for your face:
no longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two.

No one in that car could have been you.
Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen.
No longer an infant. A woman now, blond, thirty-two:
I sometimes go months without remembering you.

Laetitia-Marie was the name I had chosen:
I was told not to look.

Laure-Anne Bosselaar

2007

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Late Afternoon Stroll on the Cliffs

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