A Map of Sheltered Darkness
Under the curls of that cornfield; Mahomet, Illinois

The other side of Alaska, Summer

The time I rested my head on her shoulder, in the shadow of her hair, a place all its own

In the confession booth, maybe 9 years old, Long Island

Under the rainclouds, appreciating the quiet & the endless, simple grass—Everglades

My dog, finding her way to me at night; no matter where we were sleeping, Florida

The monk who listened to me for a long time; I take her words with me everywhere

My birthday, thirty-four lights

That cornfield, it must be harvested by now

Alaska, folding back to itself, shining gold in its glory summer

The woman I tried my best to love, moved on

An older version of that 9-year-old girl, she’s standing across from a Virgin Mary statue; she is in a parking lot in Pensacola—and yes, she has been forgiven

The everglades, still quiet, but welcoming the fire-orange grasshoppers into their forever fields

My dog, in the place all dogs go

& the monk who listened—she is still there, listening

as things disappear & reappear; the moon fading to lace & then shining bold red neon; or

even our memory of the Earth as it welcomed the moon’s shadow mid-day, as the moon’s

small disk of a body glided over the sun—not to obscure it, but to love it, & to protect it

Photo used under CC.