Issue 14
Deep Time

In the walled Paradise garden
of Allahabad, City of God,
is a state of mind
a way of being
in the stillness
only by faint rumor,
ruffling leaves
on the tree of knowledge.

Once, right after
it happened,
my ten year old nephew
touched his forehead
to mine in conspiracy:
how it was his fault
his mother died—
if only he had tried
then she would be alive.

Humans tell stories
one to another
parent to child
thousands of years
to those gathered
around burning embers
listening, listening, listening
for a hushed voice
a promise to be made and kept
about redemption.

How I yearn to turn back
the deckled pages,
rewrite the endings,
but I am atomized,
a face covered
with craquelure, a veil
spread thin to the edge.