by Cara J. Loup

Some say it was grief, and others
call it remembrance. But to her
it was a cradle, rocking, the tide
of her waking, a constant
rhythm in her father's breast,
bearing her towards the light
that wavered on the window-frame,
and it might have been a song.

From this, the words well.
wood life star

She was cradled
to the wish that turned
in her father's chest, over and
about, while his voice nursed her
to the blank of the page,
the excitement of searching,
through a light trail of ink,
for a place not yet named.

wood life star

Now she sits in a boat that rocks
gently, close to the shore.
Her mind wanders, her children will say,
but it's her body that strays
into the fold of her father's grief,
and her heartbeats are driven,
like wooden nails,
into the planks.

* * *

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