Maureen Alsop
PROXIMAL
Preparations for crossing. Not of our hands, but the bell sounding, absolute. A private
grief. Death, your mother opening what was long folded. Dear, this woman’s fastidious
recognition—the respective mind kept current
the threat of loss.
Even the threshold masks the wave’s orientation.
Prayer filled every door.
SACRESTIA
I stand in the sleep of midfield. Beyond ancient grass, grief’s mercy: those voices in
paragraphs of sugary sedition, self-conscious brevity. I died in a burning sweat, wheeze
of smoke between bramble. Strong enough to escape fever, you left a glass cup, water
at the windowsill. Smoothness like thirst. Light’s last conspirator. Before you let go your
hand.
Glint Literary Journal 