i hold the hurt in the hollow bowl of my hips,
tipping my head to look for shooting stars
amid the fireworks. a too-
wet summer crawls up the newly scrubbed base
of the monument behind us: southern soldiers
un-graffiti-ed before September’s big race.
it doesn’t feel like independence, somehow,
or even reconciliation; more like a love
fizzled out before ever hitting night air.
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
–T. S. Eliot
is about hope, how I saw a single heron
on the riverbank and, telling you of him
at the end of a bitter day, you say
I think they must be coming back.
about the note you gave me not
two weeks ago, tucked away
in my coat pocket against the still-
cool nights; how not everything fades
so quickly. this morning,
a quart of strawberries
was ninety-nine cents at the market,
so I counted out the change and I think, after
this cruel spring of shallow breath and repentance, we
will know the gasp & fire of riversummers again.