I am musing for amusements,
looking for something good.
Ancestral spirits back me up.
I am searching, and they are heaven-sent.
What is beautiful? It lasts an instant.
I hand out lists of lovers and reflections.
Someone writes me a letter in seismographic beeps.
This urn, that eclipse, a nightingale, all of it true—
I despise losing but do it masterfully.
(The dead pull on my ankles like ancient birds,
my soul, they think, in reach.)
And if sea sirens and shadow-making revelations
are stage tricks? If these are standard griefs?
Copyright © 2018 Diane Mehta
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.