Wanda Schubmehl

SCHROEDINGER’S CAT

The spaces between, say, raindrops
in the act of turning to snow
are holy, holding as they do
snow
rain
space
equally possible.
How is it that you leave me
yet again? Embrace
is never:
contact’s warm illusion
disappears, hands
pass through memory
as through smoke.
My breath rises
with the breath of trees
and flies around the earth
as wind. Say it falls to earth
in rain turning to snow.
Say it falls upon your tongue
as you laugh in the street,
drops onto the tree
outside your window.
If I live in holy spaces,
as between snow
in the very act of turning
to rain, I will say:
distance
is never. You, I, we,
are equally possible.
I will say rise and fall
are.
I will say it
in your voice.

—from Rattle #27, Summer 2007