A hundred miles west of here
a colony of Pacific gulls
tears apart something meaty
and delicious, salt and sweet.
The frozen white peaks
of the Sierras crest to the east.
No one comes back
from that other icy slope
that rises in some north,
past the galaxies of oblivion,
though today I saw your
shadow hurtle past, gripping
a rope that pulled too fast
down the invisible mountain.
A she-ghost was digging
a fresh grave there, in the shade
of some phantom oaks;
a crow watched over her
like a small black monument
inked and carved from bone.
for Anatole Lubovich, and for Do Gentry, in memory
Susan Kelly-DeWitt | Medium
Contents | Mudlark No. 46 (2012)