are muffled
by the walls. Someone
is spelling: p i z r e n
or p r i s t i n a.

Or is it c o l u m b i n e,
the name of the fragile
plant outside my door,
with blooms like bleeding

bells with five spikes? Is it
a spelling bee, a lesson
in biology or social studies?
Mountains lie in snow.

They are singing do-re-mi-fa-so -
the mountains, the children,
or the sudden swarm
of bullets? A row of metal

lockers swallows them
and then swaying, kneeling,
curling up, the row hits the ground.
A river flows by but the limp bodies

stay frozen, only one man's hand
in spasm lifts up.
Will the old Charon ferry
them one by one, taking lead

as the XX century coin?
Over the deep abyss
where the hearts sunk
the banging on the doors

and the crystal sound
of smashed glass clot
into notes, do-re-mi-fa.
But the music sheets are empty,

the lines are treading to refugee
camps, the notes can't stay,
shaped into bullets.
A woman with dried eyes

listens to the silence bundled
in her arms. A young man
pulled away spells: h e l

we'll drink thick sweet coffee
from small cups imprinted with hearts
diamonds, clubs, and spades
that bring back the taste
of bridge playing on the porch
with sand grains sifting
from sunbathed hair and toes
flip-flopped back from the beach;

we'll pick out beads
to restring old necklaces
of amber and coral silence
remembering
our morning finds of glimmers
in the seaweed brought ashore
by high tide – sun beams sinking,
passing through the current;

we'll look at the photographs
of events which she missed,
see her grandson the first time he
met the ocean’s weave and roar –
his feet gliding
over the mirrored shore
his arms up
toward the sea;

we'll drive to the coast,
let go our shoes, imprint our soles –
left, right, hers larger than mine, parallel,
diffused where the sand is hot and dry,
deep and clear closer to the water line –
dig in to watch a seagull,
a sailboat, a wave
pick up a shell;

perhaps
next time, perhaps

for now she is on the plane
back through time zones
earthskyocean
in minute panes
leaving