CAROL CORDA
STOP
A tornado warning downgrades
to a gusty watch but
our sea is squalled, an undertow
below the hallowed harbor, waiting. . . .
18 years ago your mortality meant living
past 40, but passing 50
falsely promised you a marginot line.
Miscalculation?
We took no course
in roller-coasting T-cells, read no books
on harvesting mid-life.
No equation proves love when
caregiving begets resentment
and statistics pile like sandbags
against a flood of metastatic flotsam
until the moon dives,
splitting our ocean and monster
waves hammer you under, slam me
black and blue into
nights day in day out
until you run out of days. I crawl
into a wrenching sigh
and stop.
