Four Poems

Atoms on Loan

for Bill

The eyelid of a stone in my hand

flutters, and then it opens. I say, Hello?

For a moment, I was a woman with her son standing under an arch made of ancient rocks in Scotland. (You took the photo.)

For an hour in 1981 I was a girl with drunken hair in a
swaying tower.

For a month or two in my twenties I paddled a boat made of lead down a river of blood with my hands.

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