FEBRUARY LEAVES OR WET ASH IN BURLAP


Consider what you will find in the black garden
W.S. Merwin


On the northern slope of our hills
when we both were starving openly
you palmed a black walnut and laughed
abundance is a relative term
how decadent I declared
and hauled your body home


Dark at the hems my brown dress is caught
along brambles and I fasten you to
a bowed wicker chair with twine
and land a snowball on your face
boasting a truly immaculate arch
which I eat up with my approach
flashing whittled teeth through the fog
of knowing you are dead

Run your fingers along this row of bone
you chanted
it tickles like filling up
on the whimpered noise
of too much aching

Cardinals work dangerously close
to where I wrap you  into the folds of my regret
they gorge on thistle seeds until their beaks break
with my palm figuring the shape of your knee
I crouch beside you licking snow from
the seams of your jacket and tear
bits of cloth to stop my ears with
to stop my eyes