A Meg Poem

marriage hand

for the son of the widow
baltimore, 1991


this is the shallow side of night
one false hop and you are prone to flying

and only this morning
a V of black birds dropped down
into the yard and you woke
with them, came back for them

pulled out of another dream
of your hand gone brown
the cells have stopped remaking
themselves and the hand
is dead, your hand no more
than your heart

it's the same heart you started with
the same hand you have locked yourself
into, you use the memory of this
to weight you against the fairness
of the birds' landing

against the true threat of flight.