Deep inside the vine-choked rhododendron
a robust nest
occupied by a dark bird.
Every day for a week, semi-hidden, the bird brooded.
Then gone, gone
without a fledgling.
When I leave the yard I don’t wander far.
I wear a mask.
I am living inside a plague.
It’s hard to say what it is like.
Fat magnolias are in bloom.
First, on tv I watched a hospital in a distant country
going up at lightning speed.
All across the world ships, unpermitted
to dock, languished in harbors.
Passengers, bored and afraid, sent photos of themselves.
Then schools closed, the cafes closed, the theaters.
Each time I arrive home
I check for the bird
knowing it’s gone.
Most of my dreams involve grocery stores.
Delivery from H
After Michael Palmer
Certain truths weigh more than others
If she drank a glass of vodka for instance
The leaden sky opened itself to strangers
The field today yes and no
Nothing but bills and catalogs beside the window
He roams with hands open to trap the sun
She paints an abandoned moon bounce in a gray yard
Nothing has happened since October but a barely visible web
In the basement he dreamt he saw four crows lost in the atrium
Is that flood a metaphor
Yachts on the surface signifying an Old World vagary
Looking for love between the flotsam and jellyfish
Lit by lucerne lamps
(Wind tearing westward)
For a long time nothing arrived
Then a scrimshaw box containing nothing
Rebekah Remington has appeared in AGNI online, Blackbird, Gargoyle, Hayden’s FerryReview, Linebreak, Ninth Letter, Smartish Pace and elsewhere. Her chapbook Asphalt (CityLit 2013) was selected by Marie Howe for the Clarinda Harris Poetry Award.