Overhead

Red ink sundew (Drosera erythrorhiza) in Lesueur National Park,
September 2021, Calistemon, 2021

A paper cut, then a dark
red bead—heme, the color
of rust or a bookkeeper’s debits.
The oxidizing wick lit from lungs
to toes so we can burn, then burn
what’s left on our funeral pyres.
Living has its costs—debts that
can’t be repaid, all I can do
to rebalance those books is to
ask forgiveness. Still it’s not
enough to lift the stain.

Overhead. The sky, not needing
payment, opens its treasure to me.

Calling

Otter Mound Preserve, Carol VanHook, 2010

Your voice, imagine it—held in
a conch shell, or in the damp
cold breath of an unformed wish.

What would it take to speak
despite a cut throat, or with lungs
fully soaked and drowning?

This is where we meet, then—this
place where there’s no air, soundlessly
mouthing the syllables for “beloved”
since we’ve long forgotten our names.