No wings will beat at the window,
        nor voices rise as smoke from a censer.
Her skin will not part like the flap of a tent
       to finally let the ghost of her spirit out.
We know the body is fond of making
      its marks—yellow spots on the sheets,
a brown trickle on the edge of a pillow.
      When language becomes inadequate
at the sight of what it long anticipated
      and that finally arrives, hunger raises
its head again. Sometimes it mouths
      a fierce resistance. We all have
that same reluctance to surrender
      the heart, to strip every bit of fragrance 
until only the last page remains. Press 
      the covers together. Pull the thin sheets 
over the form that's already dimming.
     Into the longboat. Skimming over the falls.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.