DEAD WIFE’S SONG
________In the space of this tiny apartment, I lay my wife’s bones
between the slats of wood so that she is like the tiger lilies she
loves, orange & trumpeting. I have carried her over one thousand
miles, over interstates & creeks, grasses & motels.
________In Virginia, there was a ghost made of diamonds who
pointed to her stems laughing. In Maryland, a small dove without
wings. With her bones so puzzled & sharp, she spoke to me like
________As I drove, her clavicle passed me a joint. She kept
singing: In the gray house by the forest, I am blinking very fast &
my eyelashes are becoming a part of your hand. Your palm is like
an ocean. I see its waves, its seabed. I watch the kelp move in
your breath. So close to the water in all these trees. So much like
a wasteland, so much like impossible. You can never be both bird
& fish, both leaf & ripple.
NOT THAT WE ARE GHOSTS
_____or scattered particles
_____or pinches of feathers
_____or wax droplets.
Waiting for the patrons to bring their museum tickets over to our jars.
Waiting for the folds to replace formaldehyde, for our mattress to finally be full of us
_____at once, lastly being the only way we can see
_____each other, through the telescopic,
_____through the crushed lens.
Our bodies: How to arrive at a body not a body but a body so that the body becomes a word you
can no longer trust. Becomes a limb. Becomes a tiny mirage floating on the other end of whatever
you are looking through: Beveled.
Not that we are looking but we are looking.