At the Same Time

An annotated list: rain, not
rain (proof: I was squinting),

or everyone grinning
in the photograph despite cancer,

the little strokes arriving,
one knuckle at a time, now

or not yet, dark ghostings
in the side vision: his, hers,

yours, mine. At the same time nothing
then something left on the porch,

a can of coconut milk, a note
in green ink, a package

of spices for laksa, soup
of the gods. We are not gods

but I talk to one, the huge nun
breathed up, all of her pitched

over us, filling the room, fierce
smile that frowned. She was

way too big to be human.
We were small, the beginning

of human. See? Close your eyes,
she flooded us again.

Marianne Boruch
The Gettysburg Review
Volume 19, Number 2
Summer 2006

Copyright © 2006 by The Gettysburg Review.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

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