Like a Saint

I'll sit here for hours, the effort
of conjuring the dead or the words
to describe belonging or
how this relates to loss-

is an act of endurance.

I know, from experience what
it feels like to have your head
held forcibly under water,
to understand commitment

strength of the arms
that force you there,

the inevitable stillness
of muscles gasping for air,
how clear and spacious
vision becomes when you cease
to resist, to exist; the silence

split-open and weightless.

Belonging: to be part of
a moment that borrows
its meaning from touch,
from care, even, from rage

of another living being-

and loss? Could it be
leaving down long, white
stairs, forgetting, forgiving,

believing?