Four Reincarnations. Max Ritvo

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: