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For Sarah, August 2018

Never knew there could be so many tears…

Rivulets descending Mt. Brandon,

innumerable tributaries

subterranean springs,

ineffable as her smile

so flush so bright,

so full of pain

until the end;

her lips a dry riverbed.

In deep caverns

aquafers drain and fill,

wells hold the wet.

Eyes become geysers

drench the moment,

saturate the space;

glistening cheeks

on a bearded face.

The lavender scented trace,

from nape of her neck lingers

strong hands,


fingers on shoulders

strong back bending,

heaving granite boulders

forming the crescent


from cabin to studio;

arching as I lay on her

in that cottage in a cloud

clinging to the

conifer-covered ridge.

In the studio is

her drill press

and oxy-acetylene tanks

tools for jewelry,

cutters, hammers and

the world’s smallest anvil.

Myriad silver creations

diverse and mad as flocks of birds

her thoughts and visions united


in the doing of,

the making of something:

Pasta sauce, earrings, mittens,

leather motorcycle seat,


Sometimes I go out and sit

on the crying stump,

stare into the trees

and the ridge that thrusts

impossibly upwards.

Near is one of her dog’s graves,

covered in stones;

a green collar with faded gold tags

hangs on the wooden sign

she made

carved his name

with a lathe.


I’ll walk the streets of Arklow

seek my sweet thing,

the way young lovers do,

is how we did,

though neither of us young.

Love, amorphous as the ocean,

dangerous, bewildering, exhilarating.

We were together

in the bucolic bliss

of a woodland retreat,

on the raucous shore

of the Atlantic Ocean.

In bars, restaurants, canoes

on hidden ridge sides,

tiptoeing down deer trails.

We were together

in doctor’s offices, hospitals

riding a roller coaster

always knowing…

she knowing

I knowing

doctors knowing

everyone knowing

there is no solution,

there is no cure.

Yet she was pure ‘til the end,


knitting on the couch,

fucking up the threads,

unable to sign her name,

walks into bed.

24 hours later dead,

her heart beating long after the final breath.

I sit in the health and wealth

of her forest retreat

walk through mud in bare feet

hear her laugh echoing

in the boughs of hemlock


tears down my face


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2019 copyright, Michael Darigan                    Stone Silo Presss, Liberty, Maine

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