top of page
Afterwards, from a distance
By Caroline Maldonado
after Montale
This is the end –
these black depths.
In memory’s
brimming pail
a circle, a face rising,
falling away.
Were those his lips
about to meet yours
or only ripples
on the water’s surface?
There was light.
Surely.
Wasn’t there
light, and water
dissolving into light?
bottom of page