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orphan’s kaddish :: heather altfeld

by on December 18, 2015

a hundred years from now,
up past the dried apple valley
and the stiff granite lonely for lupine,

let there still be a lake
capling its way behind the trees
and a dusty canoe floating in the water

and someone in the canoe
who vaguely resembles you
floating away beneath what is still,

please, the heavens blinking.
Let the little green lantern you left behind
gild the darkness with its gaslight,

reminding the water (who never forgets)
how much you loved its quick lap
against your knees. And in the trees

let us hope the flicker of a lyre bird
will be singing the fragments
of the lost songs you loved most,

melodies from the days you held
in your palm like stones
and the evenings you drank

like late rain, before you fell
into the night’s unassailable heart,
entrusting the court of the wind with your name.


From → poems

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