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and those we’ve left behind
We carry the survivors as best we can,
wrapped in a shawl huge enough
to hold the unsettled dreams of Chagall.
Folk dancers huddle in the folds, old men
can be heard chanting, a mother’s shin
dangles from the spill, and blue fish sail
through a sky of crimson thread
among children trusting
in the improbable.
The barges of our hearts ferry
the cobbled together, one being
of many beats. We carry the survivors
as best we can, only later seeing
we are the survivors we carry
and those we’ve left behind.
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