Absence

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ABSENCE


Because no better way to recognize 

how bare the porcelain of our plates 

than an empty place at table, 


no more certain tell that 

the problem won’t be solved by the bell 

than a desk, seventh period, 


waiting like an open mouth 

feeling for a question. Of course, 

no purer plunk than first blueberry


at the bottom of the bucket, 

no truer thirst than the one 

that ached us home across the vast


asphalt of the cul-de-sac

when the games were finished 

and all the bikes clicked into gear. 


And then, how many of us here—

were we to tell it like it is—can’t quite 

attest to what divine presence 


feels like, but know for certain that

something kept calling us back to the hollow

at the trunk of the butterfly bush


or beneath the stairs, that little nook

in the warmth of whose emptiness

was the fullest we’ve ever felt?

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