Agnes Vojta

 
Palimpsest

Nobody teaches you
how to be a widow.
On your own,
you must learn
a new alphabet,
write the sequel
to your story
on the palimpsest
of your dreams,
scraped of his presence,
cherish the traces
of his hand still
shining through.

 
Return to Santa Barbara

It is how I remember it: the air
still smells of ocean and tar
and of the wild fennel
that grows on the bluffs.

In the mornings, the fog
still veils the mountains.
The sanderlings still scurry
between land and sea.

But the eucalyptus trees
no longer shade the ravine
in the butterfly grove.

I hear the monarchs’
rustling wingbeats
only in my dreams.