Fate

 

I do not know what it is in me that would want to bunker down

nine hundred years to my two


and would have me speak

with the throat of a bird


or the throat of a reed by the side of a lake

with nowhere to go.


That would have me exchange

my blue and white bedroom for feathers


cups of gold for handfuls of sand

love, for thunder and brine.


Except this. I toy with banishment

a second time and a third


but my heart isn’t in it.

I already know that


if I have been required to fly

over the history of my house


and see only nettles and scutch

where my children’s home should be


then I will also be woken by bells

with their eight o’clock definite truth


so I may walk in the room of my own breath

and say we will leave it at that.