Half-full

Encouraged to make of the globe
a glass, I twirl it like a ballerina,
my second finger a divining rod.
She could be here; she could be there.

In games of Risk, she always chose
to hide in Madagascar, and she never 
attacked. Memory, says a friend,
is like someone on Tinder

looking for love. The dead, 
of course, want no strings attached.
(Puppeteers above, puppets below.
A shovel will get you nowhere.)

She’s been gone for half a year.
Let’s call it a week or even a second.
The lilac bushes are half in bud;
the sky is half in sun. Ignore

the falling snow. Use your wings
(or those of a plane) to rise above it.
The travel agent tells me I won’t need 
a coat. See how positive I can be?

Ralph James Savarese | West 37^th Street
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)