From the snow poems by Jeanne Bernhardt

your self of lost ground

This field to the other arc, in golden half hoops
under fire, ring torn, we sleep together
best not to speak your self of lost ground
where silently you now follow, keeping the universe
in good humour bravely when even this is taken
arms loosely bound but having the reminder constant
it isn't feeling but wanting feeling,
the surge of powers
from this field to the other, back and forth, creating
a double headed I-ness, who really doesn't know
how much is true or chosen, is happiness here?
Or anywhere in particular. Nor, what is meant by it
or attached to it, separated in a film
where this one witnesses, the other aches
moved & drawn to you


When you die and we who are here
gather together in the same room
not children but with children
I will say it is the sky that makes me laugh
it is space that is infinite
where you are

There will be voices and crying
and questions never answered
but what were those questions anyway
and why?

When you die I will stop pretending,
that close & beginning
hold anything less/hold anything greater
it will rain (it always rains)
and there will be airplanes and sirens
and vastness and cities

and you will be the one among us who isn't sad
the oddest day - your leaving

© Jeanne Bernhardt