The answer
was scratched on a
crumpled leaf caught
in a mid-march draft,

read once by a woman who
barely whispered its terms,
twice
by a man with a

mouth full of
marbles. It was
etched on the driftwood

that slipped out to sea;
crammed in a rusted tin
box then mislaid

below floorboards.
It was stashed in a closet,
concealed with
sheetrock

and spackle,
splashed on the
walls and repainted   

an oil-based white.
You can search
the negative space

around and between
for weeks without end
and still
never see it.

The rising moon
won’t toss you
a clue,

and for better or worse,                                                                                                                                                       the headstones aren’t
talking.

-- Claudine Nash