by Julia Kasdorf

    Among the first we learn is good-bye，

    your tiny wrist between Dad's forefinger¹

    and thumb forced to wave bye-bye to Mom，

    whose hand sails brightly behind a windshield.

    Then it's done to make us follow：

    in a crowded mall， a woman waves， "Bye，

    we're leaving，" and her son stands firm

    sobbing²， until at last he runs after her，

    among shoppers drifting like sharks

    who must drag their great hulks

    underwater， even in sleep， or drown.

    Living， we cover vast territories；

    imagine your life drawn³ on a map——

    a scribble⁴ on the town where you grew up，

    each bus trip traced between school

    and home， or a clean line across the sea

    to a place you flew once. Think of the time

    and things we accumulate， all the while growing

    more conscious of losing and leaving. Aging，

    our bodies collect wrinkles and scars

    for each place the world would not give

    under our weight. Our thoughts get laced

    with strange aches， sweet as the final chord

    that hangs in a guitar's blond torso.

    Think how a particular ridge⁵ of hills

    from a summer of your childhood grows

    in significance， or one hour of light——

    late afternoon， say， when thick sun flings

    the shadow of Virginia creeper vines

    across the wall of a tiny， white room

    where a girl makes love for the first time.

    Its leaves tremble like small hands

    against the screen while she weeps

    in the arms of her bewildered lover.

    She's too young to see that as we gather

    losses， we may also grow in love；

    as in passion， the body shudders⁶

    and clutches what it must release.

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