Excuse me, lover. I'm busy foretelling
and protesting your end. Whether I hunt,
gather, barter, or sell, what I worry over

is the order: live oaks, shorelines,
wide-eyed and flammable
creature I adore. By day, I admit

no shadow as backup: crow, please keep
your clever forensics. What would I do
with a cardboard guitar, a map of the planets,

and a box of building blocks,
alone? Another bereavement
I haven't unlearned: to bury one hope

inside another, and I, having made a home
of limbo (I keep a black hole more spotless
than cozy), once traveled through time

at will, invisible. Now, not so free. My beloved
grows heavier, hardier, heavenward.
Certain grief pre-scorches me.



About this poem
"For me, insomnia invites a nightly rendezvous with dreaded truths: that survival is ridden with compromise, and that love further entangles us with loss. This poem attempts to make a song of entanglement-something to hum while I try to figure out how to love better in spite of, and because of, my fears."
-Stephanie Ford

About Stephanie Ford
Stephanie Ford is the author of "All Pilgrim" (Four Way Books, 2015). She lives in Los Angeles.

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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Stephanie Ford. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate