mary sleeps beside me, it is morning; we are
dream-sunk and tangled in her quilts
honey warm and bathed with sun, we are berry-stained
and slow-breathing, lips purple
from last night's wine -
it is morning; we are softened creatures
and the light has come to hold us.
mary's phone is a wasp, a bramble, is a vaguery that
we cannot be bothered with. it is morning and
mary's phone is wrathful, insistent, needling us
into a sluggish consciousness. we break the
surface without grace or tact and
it is morning, and he was just here
he was right here and he was breathing but now
he is gone; he has passed through, passed
into the other, the ether, the endless,
the place we cannot follow, has passed
away from mary, from the green and the gray,
from the earth that bloomed when we
were not paying attention, from the sky and
the hearts of the trees.
mary, it is morning; it is morning for mary and
she is disassembling before my eyes. i place my palm
flat on her spine and feel the loss radiate from
her like a pulse, like a tide, like the way we used to
let the boys dance with us, when we were young.
it is morning and mary is slipping sideways;
he is gone and she is no longer tethered, no
longer governed by the gravity of his existence.
mary sleeps beside me; it is mourning, and she prays
the lord his soul to take. and if she dies
before she wakes,