Invocation

And all day today the voices on the radio
have been speaking of love: the child

remembering the grandfather who perished
along with so many others ten years ago—

I think: so young, so young, and already
the ancient catch in his voice, sound torn

between the crumple of gauze and the soft
blows of rain on the earth. Bent steel,

molten ash, heat of serrated wings glimpsed
across the prostrate city. What moments

are tamped into the grain of fingertips?
Plumes of smoke, a flotilla of bodies

still strapped to their seats in Yaroslavl.
Whose names flicker on the list of the

disappeared? Come then and touch: not
the hems of idols, but even the dull curtains

blown by the wind: shriveling scroll of blue
morning glory, inconsequential lilac; that body

you pass on the stair. Press all their faces,
like a kiss, into your unsteady hands.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.