You see how I’ve had to imagine you—
tried to make my vision fit?
I’ve re-dreamed your dreams as my own, said
we had this kind of conversation, sat down
and poured over our shared life like tea leaves—
asked for a sign.
I want a mirror that cannot crack.
I loved days when the church was empty.
Loved that Station of the Cross
where Mary weeps beside the Magdalene—
the two of them
like the split trunk of a birch,
bent in different ways but
I loved that the death
was finally done, grief
a resting place.
Ken and I are in Montana.
Smoke from the Crazies rises above the peaks—
an umbilical twist of ash collapsing
in eye-blue skies. There is a hole
in one mountain; a small crater
filled with snow—even now in August.
We stand pink rubber hoppers on green water,
watch for rainbows suspended under mossy logs.
Now and then I see my face in Ken’s dark glasses,
a halo of smoke and mountains around my head.
Miriam O’Neal has published poems and reviews in many journals, including, AGNI, Blackbird Journal, The Guidebook, Nottingham Review, Ragazine, and many others. She earned her MFA in Writing and Literature at Bennington College in Vermont. She lives in Plymouth, Massachusetts with her husband and their dog.