For a month we’ve been searching
for what the ocean might yield:
pieces of a jet’s spine or tailbone,
parts of the wings, floating suitcases,
a box of flight data and words from the pilot
like memories trapped inside the pillowed head
of a patient insensate upon a bed.
When pulses of infrasound are picked up
we reach out, as if we are probing for the hand
of comatose kin wired to a monitor,
willing them to rise up from the darkness
inside the skull, and speak.