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Thursday at the Threshold: Repetition 

Marie Scarles | Poetry

I’m back at the man-made lake listening 

to the squirrels shuffle in the crisp leaves,

& the sound of jays overhead, 

calling out to one another.

To get here I walked past the apartment

your father lived in when we met

& another we looked at together 

on Ocean Avenue. There,

we thought of you, before you were

a force under my skin, measuring 

closets and bedrooms in our heads,

asking questions about the neighbors &

how did the former tenants hitch

a washing machine to the sink with a tube? 

Always, there is what we make & how

we make do: the fragile balance

like the orange boat that floats across the water

to dredge up waterlogged junk from lake-bottom,

the roaming goat churning its mills &

past reeds on the far shore.

Last night, after my midwife swiped her gloved hand

within my cervix to separate

uterus from your amniotic skin

& after only tiny spots of blood

across the tiles, it was clear

that it was not this that would invite you

to enter the atmosphere of this unwatered world.

Instead, I walked to a restaurant & drank

a salty broth of miso soup with ramen noodles &

slick spoonfuls of chili oil, garlic

floating at bowl’s brim. I cast off this state of waiting,

cast it back into the atmosphere of late autumn.

There I will walk across the park with you—

the day comes closer—where yesterday I walked

with a friend & lamented the nation.

I cast my gaze across the rippling lake

back to where this land began as glacial kettle’s

rocky shore, where before

when the lands were ice-covered,

creatures roamed who had

names only for each other,

the sound of which cannot be imagined

by the likes of us, just as I cannot imagine

the pitch of your call, which soon—

the day comes closer—

will come to us as sure as falling water,

casting out into the darkness of our bedroom

(so cool, so blue, an atmosphere you 

simply can’t imagine) 

to make our world anew.