Paroxysm

All week, I hear news of flooding, rivers unspooling,
undoing. Once we cross this year, we will have crossed it.
In Brighton, I track the blue with my left eye,
the pebbles and fanfare, my grief on two legs.
Lilies float up on the edge of a wave,
and I almost believe it—I must believe it now.
The aim was to get the petals out there,
across the channel, where small homes lift their heads, then hide.
Even they can’t bear the sight as I step into the salt,
the white of my dress rising. I have no grave to visit,
just this stretch of water that never darkens,
even in depth, in storms that crash. Bent over the sea,
I watch light sink to the floor, like a lost body
reaching home and asking, What do I know of this place?
At sunset, I walk the long line of the car park,
the music of the day receding—I struggle to believe,
and the music isn’t for me. I think: I will have to
think of things that are. In London, foxes line the roofs;
neighbours watch. I passed by some months ago, spring hemming
the shops green, the windows green, my hands green
as they held onto another’s. I stopped to look
at two pears in a bowl of milk, other strange things.
I stop to get there now, look: the film of time is so thin,
I can step through, cutting off legs, my grief.
Once we cross this year, but I’m certain I won’t.
I’m certain I haven’t lost you: you are riding a bus
through the city, the moon heavy with a waxing face.
You are riding a bus through the city, your eyes gleaming
in silver light. You are riding a bus through the city,
and you are watching the last of the river rise:
spilling onto the streets, it drenches the catnip,
the planetrees, our stubborn relics.

Note: “What do I know of this place?” is lifted from Louise Glück’s ‘Nostos.’

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