The memories of the past skitter and vanish and in the ‘present’, the poet’s voice echoes in the darkness but ‘no sounds return.'
I did not swallow my tears.
I stared at a wall of photos of our daughter
playing on rocks at Joshua Tree National Park
The saltwater ran down my neck
one last desert storm
I should have known.
no framed photos of us in the house.
The one wedding photo we framed were my hands
wrapped around your back.
trying to hold on to something I suppose, but
so mysterious, so unnamed: a back.
it could have been anyone’s hands,
One lone photo of me at Skull Rock,
a hiker in hardness surrounded
by the sun’s apathy, the wind and dirt
I see the white shine of the rock’s forehead now,
bright, irreversible, like walking
headlong into glass.
I’m back in that cave and it’s
the present and my voice echoes
in the darkness, no sounds return.