I remember, at fourteen, when I dropped
my mother’s paring knife into the lake,
how it seemed that time had slowed, may have stopped–
but a moment too late. The sudden ache
in my arms, too slow and too short to reach
through watery darks, a blind hope to hold
again the valued thing. I cannot reach.
I cannot reach you, through this wind, this cold.
Adam, first man. You kissed me once my friend.
It hurts again to plunge this sacred bread
beneath its bath of blood. The End. Our End.
And I can only think of Him who said,
“Children, where I go you cannot follow.
Through the curse, the howl, and endless hollow.”