All my life I called you, to you
—out to you, out for you . . .
How was I to know
that you never had a name?
We never spoke of it,
only there is so much more
that you must know. You
nourished me, set my lips to your breast
and unleashed the sea in my thirst.
Our contract, not with life but
each other is how I'll lose you
for good. In the years
I have left, to whom shall I give myself,
having already taken in more than I am?
Who would receive your assent?
Which is the island of your song?
When I call out suddenly
it is not your voice. In reply,
the sky sends in the clouds, origin
born on the backs of blackbirds.
Breaking like fall on the boughs,
death is the odd number of crows.
image used with permission, courtesy of: http://magpietales.blogspot.com/
poem by Jeffrey Patrick Bennett