That Sunday at the zoo I understood the child I

    never had would look like this： stiff-fingered

    spastic hands， a steady drool， and eyes in cages

    with a danger sign. I felt like stone myself

    the ancient line curved inward in a sunblind

    stare. My eyes were flat. Flat eyes for tanned

    young couples with their picture-story kids. Heads

    turned our way but you'd learned not to care. You

    stood tall as Greek columns， weather-streaked

    face bent toward the boy. I wanted to take his hand，

    hallucinate a husband. He whimpered at my touch.

    You watched me move away and grabbed my other

    hand as much in love as pity for our land-locked

    town. I heard the visionary rumor of the sea. What

    holds the three of us together in my mind is something

    no one planned. The chiseled look of mutes.

    A window shut to keep out pain. Wooden blank of doors.

    That stance the mallet might surprise

    if it could strike the words we hoard for fears

    galloping at night over moors through convoluted bone.

    The strange uncertain rumor of the sea.