After Aria by Mariam J. Lockington


That is not my white-throat,
but that of a duck, of sparrows —
the world is so full
of winged creatures, of
former things, of notes
that I've forgotten. My cousin netted
fish the other day in
the river and even now the
names of them are forgotten to me.
We roast oysters in the barrel fire at eventide
and my own voice becomes voices
see sawing
through words. I am not myself here, the
salt air and marshes have changed me. Trees
are broad, my bones fragile.
Did I know this little
about the truth of bodies
before? Was I just tracing
at the frantic
outlines, the circles
of where I had been, not
the simple sugar of understanding
that decline is what
comes when we
wait for it, and I must.