poet and person of God. // independent researcher of the South River Quaker meeting and Virginia abolitionism.
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ALT ON BEING STILL ALIVE I know grief is boundless but your vanishing— after agony, after fear— withdraws before this battering of water by spiked blue wind before this brawl from lake to sky I feel this need to ululate I feel this need to bow as the enigma that is life rains down blunt absolving blows
ALT The swans are gone. Still the river Remembers how white they were. It strives after them with its lights. It finds their shapes in a cloud. What is that bird that cries With such sorrow in its voice? I am young as ever, it says. What is it I miss?
ALT SO IT GOES Thinking, you start in front of a store. All day: rain. Workmen shout behind glistening planks. Then you face a highway, quadrants of light, trees hanging in lakes, the sky’s landscape. Light makes way like fire catching a woman’s hair, curtains twisting through a window. Until your room and the sky flat between curtains recall your one name.
