I knew our love had faded

when the patch of land you picked for our picnic
was littered with insects—crawling and buzzing—
knowing my fear. But all was still pleasant then.
We sat under the long oak tree splitting in two
overlooking the lake and the loading dock
that settled into that silent view of everything.
Nothing had moved or mattered for some time.
Not the water clouding, the children, the skipping
of their stones. Not the geese or fish swimming gently
in their separate countries. Occasionally, we chatted
in our short phrases and held the other’s hand
like a stranger’s under the dimming sun.
Then a silence once more. It came and buried us
for many minutes and I believe it was then
we knew. At some point,
for some reason, I had asked you something
stupid, but true, at least true to me, along the lines of
Why do think that we—as people throughout history—
stake so much of our importance on our dead things?
and you, looking to the shallows of the lake, had said
nothing, but laughed
in a soft routine.

*

From the Bench Meant for Two, I Sat and Watched

as the four ducks—siblings, I presumed—
waddled through the whole length of
the public park. In their synchronous step.
Each head turning when one turned;
each resting when one paused to rest.
Them quacking and rocking and marching
until they had vanished into bush
as if it were air. I do not understand
my own division from life. Or
how even the feathered know family.
What I do know is of this silent
weight—of always watching, of always
writing. Of never walking with.

* 

tc Wiggins is an African American poet residing in Cincinnati, Ohio who has been writing since the August of 2022. His poems have appeared in Red Noise Collective, Every Writer, Small World City, Big Windows Review, Door is a Jar, and Diode.