print previewback REBECCA BLACK
Coda
I was a little bit pregnant
& every night
the womb grew
more primitive
& refined.
A small cadre
of carpenters
set up shop,
affixing
the child’s limbs
with metal hinges
and tacks.
~
I had
my wooden
artifacts,
the books
on ritual
practice
and divination.
But one
tires of ambition—
one’s own,
especially the ambition
of others.
~
There was no end
to all this trying
to conceive
a harbor
outside
my childhood
nightmares—
the bedroom
flooding
faster and faster,
bedstead flush
against
the ceiling.
Even so, I boxed
the angel,
shattered his glass
jaw & didn’t he
bless me.
~
Then the world
rose
from its stupor—
my stupor—
like a light
triggered
by coins
in a metal box
under a painting
in an Italian church.
The body
darkened
by candle,
arms and legs
tangled in soot,
assumptions
and uprisings.
The singing rooms
set above
the crypts.
~
Before this,
days still
as the wordless boy
you slept
next to every
night.
Not loving him
but staying.
Loving him
but waiting.
Another
two
hundred
cans of soup.
~
Morning.
Years later.
The beloved
makes coffee.
How useless to try
and name
this feeling
of relief.
But at least
you know
the difference
between what
is over
and what
it is
you’ve finished. 
Caesura
Coda