At the Same Time
An annotated list: rain, not
rain (proof: I was squinting),
or everyone grinning
in the photograph despite cancer,
the little strokes arriving,
one knuckle at a time, now
or not yet, dark ghostings
in the side vision: his, hers,
yours, mine. At the same time nothing
then something left on the porch,
a can of coconut milk, a note
in green ink, a package
of spices for laksa, soup
of the gods. We are not gods, the huge nun
breathed up, all of her pitched
over us, filling the room, fierce
smile that frowned. She was
way too big to be human.
We were small, the beginning
of human. See? Close your eyes,
she flooded us again.
by Marianne Boruch
from Gettysburgh Review Spring 2006
but I talk to one
