Joshua Rivkin

 ROOMS INSIDE ROOMS

You. The waves belly up to sand. No You. The ducks dive. You. City kids. They kick a starfish between them. Bravado, wrote a friend, is the work of the gods. We’re fickle as coastlines. A woman with gray hair and binoculars walks over and picks up the sea star – she knows about these things – her fingers fit neatly in the space between the animal’s body and arms. She shows them what they couldn’t know by looking at the topside, its curve and spike, defense and shimmer: nothing is alive inside. You can hold it if you want. Hollow as wind off the bay. Empty vessel, empty room. Cavafy: rooms inside rooms, left vacant by bodies and left full by time: three wicker chairs, two yellow vases, the mirrored wardrobe, the lover’s bed, and the afternoon light slipping from wall to wall to wall – all gone, all here. Past the waves, more waves. The woman leaves the kids to argue over their treasure: take it home or leave it. He holds the sea to his ear. An arriving surf, a bird’s wanting call, a world beyond this one. How lush this absence, how full is this room. Cavafy: They must still be around somewhere, these old things. How we try to leave them. How they call us back: You. You. You.