All that will remain of you, of your going, of your coming, of your retreat upon failing, of your hesitation, of your diving into daydreams, of your being cursed and torn apart, of your returning to reconsolidate, is a withered story and a wisp of hair.

Think about it,
Your hair will outlive your voice.
When the ink on these pages has decayed,
This crow
Will fly once again from that sea’s withered bed

Now, fling your hand into the air
Into the invisible cleft that’s forming
When the ripples from your hand dwindle and disappear
What will remain of you—perhaps—is a plump bug.

If your abridged story is told, a breath will leave a mouth.
That story’s breath, too, dwindling, disappearing, will
reach the next planet. Even if this planet doesn’t, the next
shall inhale what remains of your breath.

One mid-afternoon, one child having cookies and tea will
m isread—who knows, maybe—one of your sentences.
Your name will be remembered for that wrong sentence.
Who knows, that sentence may be more beautiful than
yours. A redheaded boy you can’t picture now will un-
derstand you.

Meanwhile, that crow
Will leave this sea’s withered bed
And, with this present hair of yours attached to her foot,
Fly toward another planet
Without expecting to reach it, but striving nonetheless

Don’t forget, what chars shall never burn again!
A person must always flare as if they’ll blaze again
Now stop, that’s enough
Stop at this edge
Who knows, one day you may embark once more
On a journey you cannot yet know

Offering

Offering

You are earth. You lie beneath everything.
Everything is above you. Even the earth’s crust.

You are water.
You are afraid of—and for—the stones you will strike as you flow.
You stop for fear that the stone’s skin be scraped.
Go on, flow.
You’ll stop if the stone bleeds.
If you fear pain, you’ll exhaust yourself.

You are air. Wind curves inside you.
Whereas you are invisible.
Blow.
Even if no trace of you remains, plane trees remember every breeze.

O reader! Me? I am like this, too.
I may not know it yet:
I am just like you.
You must believe me, believe people.
For there are no kindhearted gods!

And that is why, though we may be
Water, earth, air, and we may each be a universe,
We appear as somebody among the crowds.
So now,
From here, you can set out again, on your own journey.

Acknowledgements

Acknowledgments

Atlanta Review: “First Play”;

Basalt: “The Others of the Sea”;

New Review of Literature: “Offering,” “Squirrel,” “What You Must Take Along”;

Words Without Borders: “House of the Edge,” “Offering II,” “Seven Aches.”