TO THE DARK WHO FOLLOWS ME
AFTER MY SECOND CHILD IS BORN:
Tell me they’d miss me. Tell me they love me, even
on the days when my voice rises higher
than the tide. Tell me they believe me when I say
I love them to the moon and back—that same moon
that pushes and pulls the shore. Strong and wicked thing,
tell me what their life would be like without me.
Tell me, if you can, how long
they would remember me—how long until
they stop saying my name
at the dinner table. How long until
they push my death to the deepest parts
of themselves—
the aftershock of a gun wound or too many pills—
and then let it go.
Tell me.
The work of your voice coming from the backseat
has been a recurring drone, and on
the darker nights, I believe it. But I like to think,
I like to think they would hear me calling
from some windy terrain, their names rising
over icy sheets like fresh steam.
I hold onto that hope like love.
I hold onto their love like a rope.
