From her collection, The Dirty Side of the Storm:

No Matter What Happens Everything Will Be All Right

she says at the resolution of almost
every fight, and I hate her for it
although she shakes back at me

my own apokatastatic belief
like drops of water from a frond.
All things work for the good, all manner


of things shall be well. And like the very

thirsty, I can’t take in the drench: loners,
hand-wringers, misanthropes, heroes

alike will close their eyes and be taken up.
But for me alone there will be purgatory:
long nights in Lafitte’s Blacksmith’s

Shop, dank and smoky. Crude flambeaux
with no mercy, fearless river rats skulking
along the bared bousillage, illusory

threads of slow-moving water thrown
against the grotto’s plaster walls. Under my feet,
the slosh and buckle of dammed water.

I’ll lie in button-fly jeans and no shirt
and collect lost prospects on cave floors.
As land disappears from the grasp

of shore trees, erosion like a tennis match
of no serves returned, I watch love
empty into the river, silt from under me,

me alone in purgatory, the rest of creation
swimming into particles of pure light,
the rest of creation all illumined and all right.