Departures
The dreams accumulate.
In one, I see you rowing across
a wide river, the current
taking you farther downstream
than you choose. I wave,
my hand is a dove that would
lead you to shore, but you
are angry, fighting the water,
and do not see me.
Another has us in a hospital,
whispering. We are there
to visit someone I used to know
but have not seen for years.
You smoke cigarettes in the lobby
while I search the roster
for his name. When we learn
he’s dead, I am sad with relief,
the way a mother feels
when her last child marries.
I go to the second floor
to look at the babies.
When I come back, you’ve gone.
In the last one, I am
trying on hats. Finally I find
a big straw one I love,
wide-brimmed
with a long black ribbon.
I wear it to meet you,
but as I walk outside
the wind begins to blow,
skips the hat away
like a perfect flat stone.
I chase it all the way down
to the beach
where it floats out of sight
on the tide.
