That Sunday at the zoo I understood the child I

    never had would look like this： stiff-fingered

    spastic hands， a steady drool， and eyes in cages

    with a danger sign. I felt like stone myself

    the ancient line curved inward in a sunblind

    stare. My eyes were flat. Flat eyes for tanned

    young couples with their picture-story kids. Heads

    turned our way but you'd learned not to care. You

    stood tall as Greek columns， weather-streaked

    face bent¹ toward the boy. I wanted to take his hand，

    hallucinate a husband. He whimpered at my touch.

    You watched me move away and grabbed my other

    hand as much in love as pity for our land-locked

    town. I heard the visionary rumor² of the sea. What

    holds the three of us together in my mind is something

    no one planned. The chiseled³ look of mutes.

    A window shut to keep out pain. Wooden blank of doors.

    That stance the mallet⁴ might surprise

    if it could strike the words we hoard⁵ for fears

    galloping⁶ at night over moors⁷ through convoluted⁸ bone.

    The strange uncertain rumor of the sea.