Whom the gods can’t break
they exile
He’s disappearing more each day, she says.
In the cradle of her arms
she strokes his face,
feeding spoons of memory to stall
the hooded stranger,
crooning melodies to lift the lidded eyes,
lead him to the dappled forest paths
they used to wander.
Sometimes when I phone
and she’s not home
a recording greets me,
something unerased,
a robust baritone:
I’m not here right now,
but hope to get back to you
soon as I return.
– Mara Levine
