“…What use is a door if
you can’t exit? A door that can’t
be opened is called a wall. My
father is on the other side of
the wall.”
~ Victoria Chang, “Obit”
In the beginning a bird
raised its voice and bugled
from the hedge, and soon
the wood filled with answers.
But none of them could tell
why some of us look at a world
made of things neatly indexed:
sandbar, turning wheel, lever
to stop and start the swell;
while others dip fingers
into a cool marble basin,
then sign their foreheads,
chests, shoulders and lips
with water called blest
before it vapors into air.
In the beginning it felt
like love, or that a promise
was stronger than the hard edge
of a question. Or perhaps it forgot,
just as a weight lifted, soundless,
away from the branch— how only
a small tremble could tell
there once was something
fragile that rested there.