by Christa Forster
It’s about silence and the black screen of sea,
About asking questions and the small wings of speech.
It’s about loving and asking more of love,
About flinging yourself into mid-night’s blue teeth.
It’s a voice you’ll never hear in dandelion snows,
Although it sails endlessly through the lake of your sleep;
And certainly heaven is less than a butterfly stroke,
And hell is a fist held before your face
It’s about another type of ordinary loss and because
we weave its unimaginable weight selfishly,
As though sifting through a universe of thread,
There is no useful argument for these things.
Thus we deposit our dreams in the night return
And continue to wake in each ache of spring