Between the ocean’s
floor & the dying
city, between & the white

tip of a comet & the high
hum of a mandolin. Margaret
used to complain, Help me I’m lost

in flight. Which direction
home?
Then one day
quick as a nectar

starved hummingbird
she realized home is a hovering
& mutable space. In streaming

light she imagined herself as a great
blue heron. She stretched her wings
like illuminated maps across

the glass of a quiet lake. Sure, she
still gripes prodigiously. She talks
back. Sometimes she curses

her Creator. Damn it
God! Why should life
be this hard?
But her movements

are so lovely. Her grievances
are such sturdy prayers. Between
a gum wrapper & the 79

moons of Jupiter. Between
the whir of a Monarch & the hum
of the Voyager hurdling

past Pluto to the vastness
of interstellar space. Margaret
lives. Margaret thrives.