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.
New Clouds
Emily Hunt

New Clouds

Emily Hunt

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