Vera Kroms

As Though

Flesh kindles the tepid

bone, and the rowing starts,

the distant farewells

already beginning.

Each of us inherits the dead

and their brief sunlight:

a cinched heart, days collected

into amber, impossible

travel. But ghosts fail

to dent the cold. At night

we draw the water strung

with stars like japanese

lanterns and spoon heat

into our mouths.