by Sarah Kennedy
Not the grave of Henry Vaughan, tombed
by the yew at the top of that
not the sheela
on her half shell of museum
plinth in Llandrindod Wells.
the ruined round foundation wall
of the tower at Dolforwyn
(where I stumbled over lovers
in the grass—a mirror to my
burning, illicit face [record
Not Dinas Bran,
where, from the top, the suicide
bridge that cuts through Llangollen was
visible as highlighter marked
on the map-sized town.
Nor was it
the “largest mill wheel in Wales,”
the badger that slunk from the path,
my car’s headlamps, one midnight.
smile across a room or
a body moving over mine—
though my mind’s eye held you even
as I watched the kites—
they could not
be missed, wheeling outside my room—
even as I studied the door
that opened and opened itself—
though nothing (that I could see) came
through, and no one had stopped off there,
at that roadside hotel, but me.