Mercedes Webb-Pullman
Shadows shuffle
as a breeze blows, rocks grow;
I’m receiving signals from Argo.
1951. Missing. Search and Rescue
mission, my father flew squares.
‘Squares only work if everyone
knows exactly where they are.’
One faint radio transmission,
enigmatic wreckage on beaches
in the right drift pattern.
On a bypassed island
visible only to the lost,
last year the Argo crew welcomed
Malaysia Airlines flight 370.
Sometimes the moon sends
messages that resemble memories,
white shades moving like rabbits
through the radiant night.
