Christina Cook

Departure

Shards of a window through which much
has been seen: boiling kettle,

pelvic bone, low-burning lamp, your voice
up the wide open curve of my ear.

I see now how life’s only slightly
different from death, in the end.

We once watched whale oil burn
an aurora borealis of grime against

the burlap wall. Fur once welted my skin.
If regrets can survive death, mine is this:

so much was done without knowing
what it meant. In my mind,

a gyrfalcon floats
in a permanent tongue of ice.

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