Four Reincarnations. Max Ritvo
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mind
like a black glove
you mistake for a man
in the middle of a blizzard.
HOLDING A FRESHWATER FISH IN A PAIL ABOVE THE SEA
He strips health out
of the water,
reminding me
of my mother.
I walk in sea
and hold my sweet
fish above me,
no small feat
given the rice-
hard salt scraping
my eyeballs twice
each blink of lid.
I put the pail
in the ocean
and then unveil
the decorous
frail, white-eyed koi.
But the salt, I
think, will destroy
his rocking breath.
Where he wants space
he will get salt.
Where key traces
of the silence
should hang inside
his cathedral
of musical
blood—
Instead, delicious
crystal drills
will crack it all
open; the church,
its ebbs and flows.
I scoop the fish
up by its nose,
a forked affair.
I show you him.
Looks fine to me
you say (Ha!), dim
and lovely you.
This happens more
times, stopping and
starting, me showing
you my full hand,
my fish. Where have
you gone? I was
hoping to wake
from this dream
with you drawing
the curtains, a gold
glow on the sheet
wrapping me up.
You aren’t here
but I’m aware
that somewhere
you have moved.
THE WATERCOLOR EULOGY
for Melissa Carroll
When you leave my mind,
the last piece of you to leave
is your hands.
When you go to the earth
the last part of you visible
above what is either sand or clay
isn’t a hand, but a glowing shroud.
The black goose
with your name in its throat
and my name in its stomach
will cough you up with her hoots:
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