print versionJEANNE MURRAY WALKER
Trying to Save You
A loud wind haggles with the leaves
as I drive at 70 mph, veering from
a bundle that lies windblown on
the shoulder, my mind leaping
like Knievel across the Grand Canyon
from maybe to yes. A baby, it’s
the baby some frantic mother wrapped
in a frilly blanket and laid there
in hopes she would be rescued, so I turn
around, get out, and find the blanket’s
empty as the tomb on Easter. Trying to make
the world safe can break a person’s heart,
but good. You could not be rescued.
I hear the ferns I hauled in from cold
turning to brown rags. The cat
we saved from drowning prowls,
eager to bite us, wild to dash into traffic
and die. I’m a map of ways that failed
to save you, or what I’ve confused
with you. Then I watched death lean
his ladder against your house and
climb through your window with his axe
to unhook the world from
the lovely promontory of your face. 
November, Two AM
Something to Work With
Trying to Save You
The Two Selves
Where Can I Go to Find You