There will always be this place
where I feel her absence
where I feel the echo of her lost voice —
the one she would have used to call me
back from sadness as she had to be
called so many times back from madness.
What would it take to summon her —
Not having an address, just a marker
for where she is not
I can only go and visit
her absence her remains
which become less and less like her
more and more like the earth and trees,
the sky she continually faces.
I’d rather picture her under the sea
hair waving to the fishes and the brine,
being washed clean by
sharks and plankton
than under those pines by
the stone bench: one more desiccating root
in a garden of bones.
By: Sharon Dolin (1956- )