Because it’s the school nurse
saying one child has written
on another child and the ink washed
off but the writing remains:
We can’t read it, but you’d
better get down here
right now and do something.
Because someone is in a locked ward
for their own protection, meaning
someone else had to commit them,
and now walks around with a heart
like a hammered anvil.
Or, another has fallen and even though
you’re next of kin, you’re too
far away to catch or comfort.
I do not lift the headset; sift
instead what’s coming as the tide
sorts its affairs. What washes
up should bear signs of who
it carries, like an eyelash stuck
to the edge of a stamp – and no, smartass,
I don’t mean caller ID. If I can’t
have the living glance of the guy
from Western Union when he hands over
the onionskin, then just give me
two minutes more at the window, kids
from the daycare returning to their ark,
clinging to their red rope like little
shipwreck survivors, before I pick up
and let the world name names.
~ from Monkey Ranch (Brick Books, 2012)
