Departure

Susan is no more in Ireland

than I am in Argentina, nor do any of
the many men I bedded

share my elder’s bed.

So much, possibly all of my life

lies behind me, back

where my mind was a sharpened blade

now worn to velvet

cover for a well worn chair.

I could, like Susan, die in a moment

nearly all of me lost

not lost, merely finished

like days finish

not in a whirl of sparks

more like drapes

unfolding to enclose the dark.

Down to the Salt Meadow and Heaving Sea

by Libby Bernardin

Through every crevice and mountain vein of strata

rich with muted color, beauty welcomes,

as water and wind break whole rocks into sediment,

a metamorphosis so slow my fast-forward mind

flies past, unseeing, though I note their lofty reach.

My Grandfather, I remember, cupped his palms,

held then released the Word, as though

falcons circling blunted tops and bald knobs

though weary, weathered eons,

pummeling their steepness down to navigable paths

bordered by hellebore following foothills

through long meadows shimmering

with Queen Anne’s lace and blazing star,

down to the salt meadow and heaving sea —

habitat of ox-eye, cord grass, and pluff mud —

where tides rise and fall for pleasure

casting the bay’s sloshing waters

as if to slake some enormous thirst.