It came to me in a flash
as I saw your black body
escaping past the marsh,
the others turned toward me,

running too, that you alone
saw away past the mire
perhaps a thing to fear,
perhaps a deeper knowing,

perhaps the future
unraveling like a flower,
or a tornado whipping us under.
I had hoped you knew

what was on the other side.
But of course then you would
have stopped and returned,
knowing now what it was.

So you are not magic,
but like me running blind
into the unmarked field,
into the dark, fretting

whether to fear, slipping
on our own nerves.

Another for Sandra. A mural by Kerry James Marshall outside a museum caught my eye, and there she was again.