~BETH SIMON~
ROCK, BIRD
Some days, it's just
being able to
walk out of the house,
fake nonchalance, not
question whether
the one who left
for more than life was
lying. I've
played that line myself.
The first surprise after
diagnosis
is that nothing is fair,
especially hope, which
kills faster
than metastasized cancer.
In dreams I'm deaf, yet
speak to
the hearing below dark water
smothering sound. Above,
glittering
swallows, salt-water pelicans.
The ocean is sandstone,
silent but
yielding birds, then
bones, then fossils of
bones suspiciously
like symbols,
even in dreams. I'm wading
a shoreline
of water-washed mineral,
air full of birds nothing
like angels,
oracular cry and echo
promising marvels better
than love,
each eye in love with each
polished rock, oyster
shell, broken-off
feather
scattered on sand, opaque,
small,
motionless, visible.
© by Beth Simon
