She showed him the wind's direction in her hair
the interior of her forty years
with fibres of joy worn thin
by sediments of pills.
She revealed Jesus had not risen yet,
but miracles were expected.
He believed her.
He showed her tricks to find the way home;
he had forgotten the address, but once he'd hung
a hat on his father's frozen foot,
and somehow youth's chapters stuck
on his mother's torn dresses, on her hands
open for the manna of death.
She believed him.
One evening they lay a map of New York on the table,
fingers skim the Statue of Liberty,
his hand covers hers -
a saucer shapes a hole on Manhattan, cuts
streets and avenues.
With bodies as their only direction, they can lie
together, think they are proceeding.
For a while they believe it.