Libby Hart

A memory

I can't remember
all of their names.

I can't even remember
the words that were spoken that day.

Some were foreign.
Some were called over the bar in a hoarse shout.

But I watched
as his hands curled ever so slightly

And made a trumpet for his voice.
What was it that he said again?

It was something
about how the light fell between us.

I try and relearn this house of words
but the names of all things, of first and final things,

Comes only to my mouth like the language of rain,
and I'm all but a whisper of love.

Yes, I heard the language spoken,
the words were thick across his lips.

They were private words
not meant for translation.

Lake

Wild underneath,
its moodiness

just a hint of ripple
as the wooden ribs of rowboat
lull a gentle measure.

Without oar or effort
I am spun clockwise.

I've been sitting here for hours,
trying to distance myself from distance.

It hasn't worked
and all that I know
has sunk to the bottom of the lake.

Perhaps I anchored it there myself.
Perhaps it went willingly to mud and restless fish.

Either way, I'm at a loss to explain
most things these days.

I turn like time itself
until I see a thin, naked man
standing by a clearing in the woods.

He waves at me then evaporates
through the sun's haze.

There are too many ghosts here
but my troubles are elsewhere,

all bundled and bound,
so that the water has become
a slow and unfurling freedom.

I can choose to sink or swim, or row away
because there are no bridges to burn or build.

Yet I find myself waiting for portents,
waiting for something to keep me guessing.