—in honor of my mother’s first husband, killed in a war

I heard of a place near the sea, a tall rock
face looking out over wide water—

at its base a small hollow forever
in the wall’s shadow,

                                         where, it was said,
if two people stood together and pledged
a bond, it could not be undone,

though there be thousands of miles, battle
lines, minefields between them or death
come to one.

                          When there’s trouble
between us, I dream the cool shade
of that spot under the great stone’s gaze

where the surf’s choruses come sifted
through the shoulder-high shore grass
and over the alcove’s rim.

                                                        I am with you
would be the words, I being one of us
to the other, even while both
our mouths may be closed—

                                                       I also
being the sea. And of course the wind
shaking those silent rosehip rattles

like censers sending us the beach roses’
scent-echoes,

                              all the blown atoms
spun with every last ripple of care
that might lift from one of our promising
tongues.

                    For years I thought of that
open-air chapel as far from wherever
I lived,

                    but I’ve traveled and heard those
rushing sounds everywhere.

                                                         Did we stand
together on that ground, just so long ago
we can’t remember?

                                          Where did I learn
this about love? That even embittered
after the final petals have flown,

an intimate whisper tickles
the ear, a quiet insistent
song, the lyrics obscure—

as if the ocean were reaching you, though
you may be inland, or enclosed
in only fair condition—

                                                  to remind you
of what you’ve known, what you are,
still at that gusty altar.