Yes, to the wreath with plastic eggs and faux-tulips, to the triumphant no-headstone-peed-on visit, that reading "Diving Into the Wreck" was best out loud into lakeshore wind.
For turkey and open water and basketballs on concrete and wolves and sirens and Slumdog Millionaire's poignant grace.
D, bless you your dirty martini, and C, your tight-squeeze-haven't-seen-me-in-six-years hug; M, you can lick my face with the earliest morning light coming through the blinds anytime; T, I wanted so much to yell what you yelled but glad one of us did; P, thanks so much for the care-package home; Z, I wish you hadn't chewed my favorite red shoe, but we's still girls.
To home: follow me.
The rest--the to-do lists and stacks of student papers and unpacked bags and the late dinner I need to make and the letter waiting with the should-I-go question--and the wreck, sshhh.
"And now, it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here...
I came here to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail."
To Adrienne Rich, who has already written my poem.
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