WEBVTT

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OK, Yeah.

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This poem is for Mary, my wife.

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And it may be a male
chauvinist poem I don't know,

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but I'm working on it,
it's not really finished.

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It's called Lake Ampersand.

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Fingernails she goes back
to that place inside her

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where the leaves have
yellowed, the bark is silver.

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She thinks sometimes she
can see her face there.

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Children have carved
their initials deep,

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her hands along the scarred
surface feeling pain,

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slow drops like
water from an icicle.

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She kneels down
careful to shelter

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the tiny lichen British soldier.

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The coat red pure like
the blood a young girl

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sees to pricks
her finger sewing.

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She can see it now, her
life swirling past liquid

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and clear this
place in the forest

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where I sit watching
her move, her hands

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making waves in the water.

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