I used to have three
rocking chairs.
Now I have one—

a sturdy wine-colored wicker
affair designed for a wraparound
porch I never had.

I began gathering them
back in New Haven,
desperate to be

comforted. To rock away
silent demons. To roll over
the haunting curl of waves.

There used to be three
wooden swings behind the cottage
marking the spot where the Beach Road

Extension fades into a dead end.
Our grandfather made one for each
of us girls. Long before there was a boy.

Each time I return
to the island
and trespass down

that private dirt drive
(really more sand than dirt),
I’m too afraid to look.

What if one of them is missing?
All or nothing, no matter what.

No Fates. No Grays.
We were not the daughters
of Phorcys + Ceto,

or Zeus + Themis,
or Nyx all by herself.
Well, then again, maybe Nyx.