Should you get this note,
let’s forgive the fact that clerks
in sorting centers from here
to the east coast have read how
today was better for me
once I pushed away from the dock
and rowed with a single oar
side-to-side in this leaky skiff,
bailing small amounts of lake
back into its watery mystery.
And let’s forgive how the fog
held me in its wispy arms, layered
in its long and thin feathers,
probing me with questions
of mortality and remission as
I tried to sit still, far away
from the snags beside the bank.
And, if you can, forgive me
for writing to tell you how today
will be better once the sun
drags itself across the ridge line,
and once you call to say
your doctors in Boston have
trumpeted out your test results,
like the single stag elk, just now,
divulging himself from
somewhere past the tree line
along this lonely stretch of shore.
RICHARD FENWICK is a poet and Russian translator who works with Holocaust survivors from the former-Soviet Union. His poetry has been featured in various American and UK journals and quarterlies, and his first collection Around the Sun Without a Sail was published in 2012. Richard lives in Tucson, Arizona.