by Becca Barinskis
Who can say what might have happened if only
I had rowed a little farther?
If I had searched past dark,
come back sooner,
or looked away in time?
What if I’d ignored
the deficit of smoke curling
from the chimney?
What if instead of entering hungry
I’d gone on?
A small wind stirs up.
A leak in the air.
An empty room seen through
dirt-streaked panes:
fine dust coats the surface of the table
in the late afternoon
of a day that has not yet come—
I will kick it over
and it will be too broken
to use anyway.
What if the wind kept more to itself?
Who tossed the engine overboard
and set fire to the map?
How many times has the forest burned
itself to the ground?
Why was this the only way?
How could I know that any of this
is going to happen?
