AUDITING THE HEART
One mother who owned
the sea, one father who walked
on water, and in a row boat,
one brother who believed
marriage meant becoming
the roof over a woman’s head.
A room for the night with a view
of the water, the moon a quarter
less than it should have been,
the shape of my wife drawn
into the empty bed one memory
at a time. There were too many
stars to count, a registry
of old gifts and receipts strewn
across the sky, a mess
of things that died getting here.
—from Rattle #37, Summer 2012
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Frank Matagrano: “Poetry is an investment that never gives exact change in return.” (book)
