by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Your hands fit inside my palm
and in your mouth—
so you read your world
and I redefine my own.
I will learn the names of trees
for you, look up words
I thought I knew, scale mountains.
Almost overnight, a sharp white ridge
tenders your pink gums. My pain
that I could not keep you
from the ache of it.
How to preserve the music
you’ve given to quiet corners?
Given a sky filled with swallows
to measure the evenings by,
marvel at the thrum of their wings,
what delicate lacework
this from above.