Itinerary
I am nearly forty now,
and I am planning a trip.
But you know that.
Every mosaic wall will tell
the story of a moment we never got to live.
Every sparkle of sun on the Mediterranean
will ask where you are.
And I will have no answer.
You gave me,
among the gifts,
the rules of a new infidelity.
The beauty of resurrection day
ending in the survey of ruins
and the feel of pounding surf.
I should have known,
I should always have known.
That first night, I saw it:
the wreckage, the disorientation.
I dreamed of traveling this country
by elevator--
the certainty of destination
made improbable.
States, lifetimes ticking by
too fast to see or feel them.
I no longer love the sun,
or art,
or the sweet, quiet "hello"s
of the three year old next door,
trying gently to call me out of silence.
I will travel without knowing
where I am going.
That is the only way.
I will pray for the hope
of a world larger than me,
larger than you,
to swallow me.
Jonah. That blessed silence,
that slow dissolution.
If only there were no rescue,
no vomitous survival.
That would be a story
worth telling.
