Print into the Bruise

by Aliza Rood

I hung by a thread
you used to sew
your eyes shut.

It was lonely
relegated to your
dozen Switzerlands.
They refused to
get involved.

Sometimes
you have been stories
that followed the hiss
of conversations
running
out of air.

Our house filled
up with smoke from
snuffed-out moments
twenty to a book.

Mistakes are little
cakes I’m baking. And all
the little boys outside
keep practicing
their curveballs.

No matter
how much we want
to be impressive,
all any of us are in the end
is a thumb pressing
one unremarkable print
into the bruise of the beach,
the firmament.
How can anyone leave
knowing that?

I just listen
for what I am out there.
Save the scene. Rearrange
the drawer of important
moments for its special space.
Open it over and over.
This is not the only time
I was surprised.