For Wendy, 1964-1984
Afterwards, on my drive home, there was the moon—
crescent, waning—above what world I could see.
Children in a yard—running, laughing, falling; a woman
calling to them from her front porch. And the words I imagine
she spoke into the dark wind: Come in, it’s late, come in.
Before this, there was the news that travelled from Germany
to Ohio: A train, and something about the platform.
Easy to lose one’s footing on… followed by visitation,
the open casket. Wendy, not Wendy. And her three sisters—
each of whom had Wendy’s eyes. How her sisters had stood
facing me, in a kind of arc, half circle; their mouths opening
and closing in the language of mourning. How, in the distance,
there was the sound of a train—horn followed by rumble.
But mostly, there was the room we gave to that sound.
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Lisa Dordal teaches at Vanderbilt University and is the author of Mosaic of the Dark, a finalist for the 2019 Audre Lorde Award for Lesbian Poetry, Water Lessons (2022), and Next Time You Come Home (2023). Her poetry has appeared in The Sun, Narrative, Image, Best New Poets, and Essential Queer Voices of U.S. Poetry.