Sorrow first, and then the fall

for my sister, Wendy

Sometimes as large dogs and sometimes as hailstones
the uncontrolled comes into the garden.
No need in this theology for snakes – we’re all
struck down, making our way bellywise
just barely holding on. Before she drowned my sister
would take a loaf of bread to the beach, throw it by handfuls
to gather gulls, and when she had enough,
run through the whirl as if to try out wings.

Sometimes as birth and sometimes as blood clots
the magnificent visits. I magnify, said Mary,
caught in the teeth of grace. She had
to be shaking. My soul is a ruin with one wind-swept bird –
a gull, perhaps – dipping is brilliant little head.
A perfect ruin uncovered in the desert. God the wind.

Sometimes as lightning and sometimes as crickets
the ruins speak. The sound in a shell
is not the ocean but the echo of blood, a heartbeat magnified
in the folds of silence. Before she drowned my sister shouted
Stop the car, stop the car and took off running
into crows. Call her now and what darkness rises?
The trees roll their branches like Thai dancers
in the sudden hail-breath of her name.