my ocean like a god never recedes / / but sometimes it withdraws / for a brief breath-holding / leaving the lagoon alack / / the fish gut-sputtering
Mother, I wrote a poem in which I forgave / your sin of omission, your fear of the truth.
Because takeoff so quickly morphed / / into landing, because the sky so quickly became a bridge and then a body / of water
Every year, my father climbed to the roof in late fall to install his homemade star of David on the top of our house.
You find the cracks for me—the small space / behind the triangle of peeling wallpaper, / / the crevice in the plaster, the air between / one page and the next. O Lady, show me / / the hidden.
Your Godmother, Almost Blind, / crochets away / the news / of your day.
