Blessed Be
the undone version, the
in between, half-way
there. I overslept, must
have turned off the alarm
in my sleep. so tired
and the rain so soft, I
rush to get in my walk. by
the sea. my solace, my
morning kiss, after the rain
before the day. my friend
calls, her friend is dying. She
cries, I cry. waves crash. Rare,
the Mediterranean—usually still, but today
strong. what? my friend can hardly hear me
over the crackle-crackle of the wind. What? I say
Dying she says. again
dying and she’s my age. I decide not
to tell her
my children aren’t speaking
to each other, and one
isn’t speaking to me. and one isn’t
speaking at all, in a Dostoevsky darkness
I know. seems small. compared.
not cancer, my chest caves
in. for her, and
me—maybe
my tears are as much for me. tears
I feel guilty to whisper. I imagine
in one hand
cradling a glass of Burgundy
burning cigarette in the other, staring
at the sea, and a long-loud sigh, my friend
has to go, I must pull myself together, I say
to myself, I say
goodbye but still hold the phone.
wanting—something, to have said
something, but there is nothing
in my hand but a certain grasping.
Tara Zafft is a US poet. She is a mother, wife, dancer, seeker, who tried to embrace the ups and downs of life with curiosity, love and wonder.