August 27, 2014

A fox follows you
till fear makes you
sprint to lameness. A swim
in the ocean

in your dress awakens
your hidden desire
to be out

of control again. Your hair
may smell of seaweed
and salt mixed
with grief

for your father—some called
Running Fox—now dead
two years. But the air

you breathe
in this moment
brushes the Atlantic Ocean
across all surfaces—your face.

After the First Year

Let the counting
continue invisible. A voice
so beautiful she’s afraid
to listen for it. If it’s the best
she’ll ever hear,
what then? What key
do ghosts sing in?

New Normal

The morning after
it all, I wonder
when, where, how
it will emerge.

When will
the aftershocks
of his death cease?

Where did
the bagpiper go,
where should
those empty shells
from the gun salute go?

How will
I know
this is
the new normal?