After Jim Moore, “Twenty Questions”
Did I let my attention wander? Did I miss
the turn toward home? Was I oblivious
to the mauving sky? The barn owl’s swoop and screech?
Did I not feel your trembling as shadows crept?
How is it that we only traveled deeper
into the density, all its branches grasping?
And what of the scattered copses where light
briefly smiled? Why didn’t we stay longer
in the lap of respite, let its warmth thaw
the stiffness between us? Would God have helped
had we asked? And at the fork in the path, why
did you turn to the steep? How is the view
from ten thousand feet? Could you send me
a sign from the cosmos? A song from the stars?
Did you know I tied a tether from my left foot to yours?
Can you feel its tug despite the distance? Can you imagine
I’ve saved this shriveled cord of skin from the day
you were born? That I somehow knew we would
need it again? Might you feel its strength? Follow
its lifeline? Come back to me?
