Between Sand and Stone

(for my sister)



Between Sand and Stone

(For my older sister who was killed in Autumn)

The water is blue.
It moves in and out-- white foam
and screaming seagulls. Oh, the sudden
of it! It is 3 o‘clock in the morning and already
I have witnessed an early frost on dark glasses
that wedge themselves into the sand.

Already, I have felt the silence of your arrival.

Softness settles on the threads of your dressing
gown as you smooth a place to sit along the shore.
Cold, your mouth hangs like a sullen moon.

I want to pull you into my chest to warm you,
but I cannot move; my flesh has become
the ache of the season-- locked inside, where
my heart seems to be insufficient in its churn.

I need to let you know that your darkness frames
the sea, the gulls, the small boat that I have abandoned.
I have stood outside your imaginary church, never
entering.

I have sat in minutes rooms, pierced the white
with filtered thoughts, but still I see your passing.
It has been only minutes, and already I have swept
your tears beneath my coat, never noticing how
you remain translucent--a vague apparition.

I want you to know that I am here, driving
the snowflowers from your stone. I have plowed
the dark with inept hands.

Is there no other way?

(The waves pick up pace, siding with the sea,
they stitch our eyes to the horizon, where we
are held by blinding salts and circumstance.)

If for a moment, we hold hands...perhaps
together we can burn.
Perhaps we can warm the grays from your
gown--the dirty browns , where soil has leaked
itself, turning your bed into a garden.

(I place my hands in my pockets, walk toward
you. It begins to rain.

Somewhere out of the dim,
stars surface and scatter.

Leaning into the wind,
my body severs. Heading for common waters,
I begin to slip to sand beside you.)

I need to let you know that these waters inhale
your graces, your beauty through absence.
The heat of it brings me to my knees.

You did this.

My arms stretch for yours, a thousand silvered
ghosts slip into your dark.
A thousand black balloons rise into the air.

I cannot fly out of the madness.
Take these broken wings like distant weather,
bury them in the sand, bend pacific coast
highways--lead me to you.

Because although I can see you, sense your
grief on the periphery, I cannot do this by myself.
This is, but a dream.

These eyes unfasten from the horizon, mist over
useless in this relationship interrupted.
You think you can keep on going? You think you can
sit there like a seashell, and saturate the backdrop
into your dull veins?

Would you have uttered the future into my hands
if I were Heaven’s companion?

Hours have passed, Denise.
I am clinging to tomorrow.
Untie your tongue, my sweet sister.
Give me a reason to breathe again.