“Nothing remains
except her bones and voice.”
Ovid
I’ve chosen quilted combat boots,
for the waiting room today,
camo pants in a soft palette of grays,
an alert-red t-shirt
whose neckline gently scoops
around the anniversary necklace.
They’ve mailed a warning
to remind me to stay uncomfortable
when I arrive, not to relieve myself
because the discomfort creates
clarity.
They’ve whispered a warning
into the phone’s empty voicemail box,
about how we can’t connect, and how much
this will cost me.
Underwater, light bends coolly,
conforms only to the curves
of sea caves, can sometimes
cause delays.
I think of this as I lie receptive
to transduction, to the waves they
send through skin
to find the pain.
They use echoes to unearth
the incendiary or inflamed,
to locate what’s wasted
and what remains.
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