After Letting E. Know Her Cancer Has Spread

I stand there counting
how many hands it takes
to pull someone back from the sea.
Or fire. Then walk
into the forest, away from the fire.
No fox. No deer. Above—
a sparrow, a bullet in her teeth.
Even in this windless storm. She and only
herself. Then a hawk. Hurtling.

And her face—just after I told her.
The light. The way it landed. I said to myself
I said—if light were a sculptor
those are the hands I want to love.

Count one thousand. One thousand
breaths. And when the calm settles
not like dust. Or the mountain
now her soul. She sees
two deer. Midflight. I suspend them for her
—with just one finger—
because I remember she said
I love the empty street.
How one river falls into another
without anger or possession
even though its bed of stones.

And the fire back there.
And the forest ahead holds in its arms
all the fallen birds.

Lindsay Rockwell

About the poet: Lindsay Rockwell’s work leans into questions encountered in her work as an oncologist, the shared landscape of poetry, science and the sacred. She’s recently published, or forthcoming in Guernica, Poetry Northwest, Poet Lore, Tupelo Quarterly, RADAR, SWWIM every day, among others. Her collection, GHOST FIRES, was published by Main Street Rag, April 2023. She is the recipient of the Andrew Glase Poetry Prize and fellowships from Vermont Studio Center and Edith Wharton/The Mount residency.

www.lindsayrockwell.com