Balk

by DAVID AXELROD

—before you fulfill
the performance of not being

these pasqueflowers and beargrass
radiant in the forest at dusk,

a lit face nearby
in shadows at the trailhead

saying into her phone,
the pressure to not be

in one place at the same time,
the gist of it being

lives splinter
or the waiting to admit it

is over

                        *

            as when they called your name

and said to come inside
at the end of a spring day

to rehearse again
your sister’s not being,

though by then you knew
to linger and not obey,

just listen as the contralto next door
sang lyric scales

at the open window,
enchanting and filling the garden

inside of you

                        *

            where she falters still

in the lowest octave,
helpless as you are now

in the performance of not being
two mergansers

flying fifty-five miles an hour
along the river,

of not being these hillsides
covered in balsamroot and cous

damp with melting snow,
gleaming as mottled sun departs,

the light mineral and clear.