for my wife*


i.

it's old. this
what have I done, this
dark ship. the crates
steadfast
in their charge
of silence, the ice
bored
and breaking.
we move
in our cabin
bed

shift
our bellies
to stay
the compass
of hurt.

ii.

our new baby
we honor
like a bruise, a slack

blue
puppet
hangs itself

impossibly…

iii.

I say I’m sorry
in three stories
I envision
as three orphans
of wiser
men.

your shoulders remain small.

iv.

…too small
for what
reaches down
to shrug them