Kitty Jospé
“a swarm of ghosts gyred around…”1
and she asks, remember those circles once
the stone touches the water–
how they widen their gyre?
I tell her she is the only one
I know who uses that word
for spiral still.
She turns to me and says,
each stone waits a turn
to create whirling vortices—
and drops another stone
into the water
to allow it
a place
to settle
with her memory
of where she found it.
I used to think it was good
to hang on to memories,
she says, letting go
of a beautifully flattened stone,
polished smooth by the sea.
Now, I prefer the tiptoe
of reflections in the water.