The Crossing Over
The crossing over is never for good
and always unsure.
But I do know this year has been lighter.
I’ve moved around it freely, apart from the day
I read too many emails from my past.
That morning I felt vast and nauseous
like the air at the center of four people
looking for a heart inside a ghost.
I moved through my house
doing the small things I had to
thinking of more sleep.
My friend picked me up
and we drove through an odd light.
Every corner, every street held
some dissolving feeling.
After a few miles we stopped
and walked to where the land met the river.
Her silver car was parked at the edge of the field
holding silence far from us.
I had never seen her cry before.
I talked for her, about our town, its theatre,
pathetic and charming,
and how each act tended to collapse
into some simple display:
five people, a chair, a door to the next world.
How to bring a new figure close
was like taking a globe, turning it once
and placing it back on its pedestal.
How huge this made one feel, and how empty.
She included me in her confusion
and I felt useful. I wanted to be like her
enough to understand myself
though I knew that even if I were
or even once I could, I’d be mixed up
in some older mystery.
She may be on another coast by then
or out at sea, taking notes.
I may have moved to where there is no snow.
We may barely be in touch.
Every now and then
there was the silent progress of a car
cutting through a farther field.
The sun was lower.
It reminded me of hell.
It felt like years had passed
and we were the only ones who knew.