Practice by Ellen Bryant Voigt

Practice

 

To weep unbidden, to wake

at night in order to weep, to wait

for the whisker on the face of the clock

to twitch again, moving

the dumb day forward— 

 

is this merely practice?

Some believe in heaven,

some in rest. We’ll float,

you said. Afterward

we’ll float between two worlds— 

 

five bronze beetles

stacked like spoons in one

peony blossom, drugged by lust:

if I came back as a bird

I’d remember that— 

 

until everyone we love

is safe is what you said.