by Lisa Spaar
Every evening now, the geese.
I wish it meant something
more than shit-sludged pond
beside the local nursing home,
denial’s last resort, Our Lady
of Glacial Melting. I’m falling,
as I always pray to do, in derangement
of blossom-prosper, for you,
pined for, prior even to Saturnalian,
suspended nowhere-tilt of amnion.
Believe me. Or don’t. I could not cast
words more true, us, once suckling
the calving ice of mother’s milk,
pale as first light, magnetic blue as flight.