CHERYL SNELL

The Memory of All That

You surface on a stretcher
and I become a believer again.
But when my eyes open wet
against deserted sleeping, my heart
turns against me, flailing like a blinded bird.

You come late and looming,
filling the doorway in shadow clothes.
You melt at the foot of my bed, out of reach,
leaving nothing but a piled-up robe on the floor.

When I see you next
in some bald white dream, will you stare
straight ahead, both hands steering,
mouthing still-born words into the air
of conflicting sound?

Or will you let me hear your voice
still soaring, ringing
with all the violence of skin and bone
above a crowd of swollen angels?

copyright CHERYL SNELL