After Lucille Clifton

He spends most mornings inspecting the seals around memory
but violence poses as shipwreck, both accident and fate.

A ripple through water. How barriers can be, simply, surface tension. Thoughts
form agates in his head, now dug up, washed,

bifurcated to display bright bandings of shame. Truth torn from beauty in
thick mauve ribbons. I am trying to do what I must,

he says, and the air is careless to answer. The atmosphere thins,
a third entity enters, sits on light’s edge

spilled across a desk. Does it help knowing? He knew a man who knew
the exact coordinates of grief: he bellowed

them out, on the spot, all life’s horrors and shallow disappointments—
a stream of numbers. The horizon subtracts

a face, its lost profile the footing for carrying on. The war continues
across splendidly faceted jewels. It does not help,
the knowing.

This piece is part of the Summer 2026 issue.