What We Hold

One of our old cats loses a tooth
the same day that paramedics 
drive onto Mark’s lawn 
and gurney his wife out 
into sirens and lights
washed into mist by the noon sun.

Nothing holds us. Yes
our towheaded boy. Yes
the gravity of each other.

I want to anchor here—
the high, sweet smells of summer,
the dog fennel wilting in the corner ditch.

But we’re adrift
like some wild wisp of owl feather 
lofted among the grasses. 

Mark stumbles to his truck, 
muddles the gears, rolls out
behind the ambulance—muted now.
The lights vanish
beyond the corner, 
and, though nothing holds us,
we will not follow. 

Perched in these woven porch chairs,
we admire the Argiope’s web 
zippered between the rail and roofline.

Behind us, our cat contemplates a butterfly
settling on a late-blooming vine
weaving through the chain link fence.

James Engelhardt’s poems have appeared in the North American Review, Black Fox, Blood Orange Review, South Carolina Review, Qu, Fourth River, and many others. His book, Bone Willows, is available from Red Hen Press. His newest book is Never Just a Game, Sheila Na Gig Editions (forthcoming). He lives in the South Carolina and lectures in the English Department at Furman University