Ron Koertge

No one would take her when Ruth passed. As the survivors assessed some antiques, I kept hearing, "She's old. Somebody should put her down." I picked her up instead. Every night I tell her about the fish who died for her, the ones in the cheerful aluminum cans. She lies on my chest to sleep, rising and falling, rising and falling like a rowboat fastened to a battered dock by a string.

Until then, every forest had wolves in it, we thought it would be fun to wear snowshoes all the time, and we could talk to water. So who is this woman with the gray breath calling out names and pointing to the little desks we will occupy for the rest of our lives?

The anthology of love poems I bought for a quarter is brittle, anyway, and comes apart when I read it. One at a time, I throw pages on the fire and watch smoke make its way up and out. I’m almost to the index when I hear a murmuring in the street. My neighbors are watching it snow. I put on my blue jacket and join them. The children stand with their mouths open. I can see nouns — longing, rapture, bliss —