Anima sola

“where the sea is now
we would meet” ~ D. Bonta

The day I flew away I did not think
to bring a bag of crumbs, white and
pebbled as moonlight, to scatter

from bank to bank for finding
the way back again. Besides, where
might they land without the sea

dredging them in salt, then swallowing
them whole? I traced with my finger
on the dirty plane window

faint bird tracks, running
stitches, imagining the faces
of the children looking up

into the sky’s inverted bowl. Who
again was the figure beside them,
crone-like, knobbed fingers weighted

with rings? What did she whisper
about the woods where she would take
them if they didn’t, if they didn’t—

 

In response to Via Negativa: Solastalgia.

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