They come into the light drawn by votives floated on water. Gold flame of candles, our mouthed prayers; banners painted for protest marches in the aftermath of their deaths— For years to come they'll eat the offerings we leave on makeshift altars: spaces cleared on top of the TV stand, the tiled counter next to the sink, a subway entrance, a street corner— When a butterfly When a bird of a different color When a residue of ash forms the hand- drawn shapes of their names When a pattern of lifted fish scales makes a trellis on the body— Memory makes a silk knot in the vein. Memory rushes away, sure of its going; escort now to the migratory flock. In the wood, the trees only appear identical. The moon when it rises scatters words of mother-of-pearl. Memory finds the rusted padlock, the boarding pass; the wooden plank, the plastic gun in the park. Notice how a blade of grass, held against skin, is both soft and sharp enough.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.