Page 84 of Wayfarers

me better, or maybe

the force of my wishing

it so is creating its own gravity

forceful enough to bend things,

the way light yields to the force

of a black hole.

Because, see, she’s beautiful

in this glow, the dappled sunlight reflecting

on her face from the water’s surface,

her lake-drenched hair plastered

to her cheeks like leaves

to a window during a storm;

beautiful enough to crack me;

beautiful enough to open me

like a book. What do you want

to know? Ask me anything, I tell her.

What’s your favorite food? she asks.

I want to tell her that the answer

to that question will take me

years and that she’ll just have

to stick around.

Instead, I smile at her. Avocados.

And I sink beneath

the water, one arm held skyward

in the hot June air like I’m begging

heaven for spare change.

Sylvie Laundry

When I look up, the day’s gone over

into the slow hot orange of late afternoon

and Winslow is snoozing paws up