Victoria Givotovsky

Is there nothing then
inside this charred heart?

Something trembles
like a door hanging by one hinge.

But a heartbeat?—No.

Down river, an ice jam masses
under a railroad trestle.

Who's on that train?

(i)

I could move and see the sea,
but I do not.
This morning a green tree
intrudes its many leaves.
A west wind blows.
I wait for the small rain.

(ii)

I would move and see the sea,
But I cannot.
My limbs are rooted to the bed.
The west wind agitates
a thousand, thousand leaves.
Still—no small rain.

(iii)

I could move and see the sea,
but I will not.
The sea is for the dreamer.
Wind rips the tree.
I have no dream,
hear no small rain.

As time passes, as what's called life
returns, as days begin again
to differentiate themselves
into yesterday, tomorrow
and today, I now find myself
vulnerable to lesser sorrows:
his voice, but pianissimo—
he never spoke that way before,
even as a child his voice was strong,
but now, being dead, he whispers
from unshut drawers, or partially
open closet doors, words hard
for me to understand so few
so pianissimo.