JUDITH M. NACCA
SOMEBODY’S CRYING
When the flame has coaxed its final moth,
when the coyote howls itself to one last death,
and the moon, once again, cannot be bothered,
when the sea still does not return our belongings,
despite how we wait along the shore,
with our faces erased by a slow salt-licked wind,
when, finally, we no longer recognize each other,
and you are just a coat with pockets of stone,
and I am a kerchief of withered leaves,
then we’ll have one ear between us, my dear,
then you’ll hear me listen to the sound of your voice
uttered by the antiphonal waves.
