My question for love is this: how do I live
this way. Which way does the breath go. Which way
the blood as it runs. If I am alive
and in love, how long will it hurt. Away
we go, I say, climbing into the boat
I did not make but every night am made
to trust. I practice letting go: one beat,
two beats, eighty per minute. Death has mowed
more and more of the meadow. Each day I have
fewer questions but they are all about
pain, and what I would do to survive it.
Or not, being un-brave. I wave and wave
at my swimming daughter, whose stronger
arms pull her from me into something stranger.