with grief—when I say,
I’m not doing this anymore,
I mean, if another ash tree
wilts, if the honeybees
don’t reinhabit their hive,
if this, and if that, I’ll slough
the last twig of belief. But
I can’t make it past
January’s headlines, the orca
nudging her lifeless calf,
plying Puget Sound with her
quenchless snout,
diving again, and again,
as often as she can, as often
as she can bear the weight
that keeps slipping
her teeth. Again, and again,
her unalterable grip. I vie
for some other outcome:
what if, what if—as if I
can strike a bargain to revive
the dead, as if I know what
a mother needs, as if I’d ever
ventured that salty sea.
After I think I'm done by Sandra Fees | Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$15.00Price
