for Judith Fitzgerald (1952-2015)

Nothing visible prepares us
for the wounds we accumulate.
-Judith Fitzgerald, 26 Ways Out Of this World

You are trying too hard / / to enter this world.
Kathleen Fraser, Notes preceding trust

you: once the river; strangled heart,
abandoned sandpaper, impossible splits
of three-penny quilts;
tincture, confidence; at once, rubbed smooth
lake, as big as a province
a proportion
of unknown radiance; layered, foreground
a small, green insect;
abandoned pronouns, desire, decibels
what were you to this, to them;
gaining uncoordination, facts and fancies, double-bind,
pinned hopes on poetry,
successful pardons,
split, and split; broke hands with bread,
*
held, to flame; a confidence
where missives fled, emerged; a black hole,
northern gateway,
pitter-patter torn, and slams; your wild,
wayward modes,
the height of meaning: a dangerous matter,
a love affair, the very gift
of an acerbic, with
I’ll miss; the images are real:
dog-star, islands, deserts, plains—
you wrote them
sideways, wounded; brain-pan
saucers, anchored: stars and leaves,
and then, once entered, lost
come autumn, autumn,
winter: such a large and lonely place
you’ve left,

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)