There is a part of you that you wish
would die. It won’t. There’s a part
of you that you wish to live,
to finally understand how to
unfold. It stalls in the bargaining
minotaur of process.
You look up at the evening sky, fire
over the empty parking lot. You’re the last one
come out. Tunisian sky is the color of thinskin
strangely-bred tulips. Bright yellow,
eyes bothered, watery veins red.
Look at it reflected in the windshield
of your car and it suddenly
more real. Why?
Is this only chrome feeling?
What is it about reflections,
how they understand where the world
fails to be more?
Is chromatic only timed feeling?
Sometimes staring into burnished steel
of elevator doors before they have opened,
you feel similar.
You braid his body to yours in memory.
as if he were merely wicker,
bird, this wickerwork. A pleasant
thought to hold, to braid.
The Celtic form of it finished
and hung out in snow.
You have the hands of the crone
come to the crow. Winter grammar.
This is the part where your dreams stutter,
that is where you lose your place.
Remembering it is like visiting
a cemetery. You must pretend you are
a queen of daft caterpillar feelings. Wed them
as a people. A country
of dead citizens. Be quiet
and it is one-sided as if someone
were dead, though no one is.
It is tolling, only sand on frozen road.
The wedding ring, his this caterpillar.