GLOBAL TRANSIENT AMNESIA
Your daughter is out in the world. Not quite lost,
though the stretch of cerebral highway she’s been driving along
has been washed out in a storm. Sudden rain, flash blood
pressure. You’re on your knees now. Every surface is a map:
the Berber carpet, your husband’s face. If you could find
the trail of crumbs, a strand of hair. But the brain is forest,
desert, glacier, gorge. You stumble in the new moon dark.