The man has walked through many lives, / but not as many as she has. She has given / over to the probability of loss, which is enough / to make one ask, How shall the heart be / reconciled from this feast? How shall it / remain intact to keep her going wherever she needs to go? / Every step requires more strength than it appears / she has. In her darkest night, when the moon is covered / and she roams through the wreckage, the man comes / to lie next to her. He puts his hand on her belly, / and though he lacks the art to decipher what / her body still needs, he is willing / to will himself to learn.
Michael Levan has work in recent or forthcoming issues of Allium, Pithead Chapel, Heavy Feather Review, Lost Balloon, and Hippocampus Magazine. He is an Associate Professor of English and lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana, with his wife, Molly, and children, Atticus, Dahlia, and Odette.