Dedication


To my wife.
To our smallest child
who died inside her.
“After today, this will be
just a bad memory,”
the name the surgeon gave
our own unborn.

To our son, staring
at my face to see
the little boy reflected
in each pupil,
which also means little doll.

To my mother
who always read to me.
Her mind took her
inside a troubled land
where no fusillade of cards
could wake her.
“It's a poor sort of memory
that works only backward,”
the Queen told Alice.

To everyone gathered
that night on our patio
when a thud against
the sliding door startled us.
To the wobbling screech owl
dazed by the blow
and our parakeet, cheerily
oblivious behind
a palisade of glass.
To all the walls we keep, unaware
until something comes for us.


Poet Lore, Fall / Winter 2014