Dead But Never Acknowledged As Dead

Until I unravel, again, over Richard

leaving, I let the wind winter smoke into my

bedroom, and my reflection watches me

shiver with the flames of the candles

I’ve set in rings on the hardwood,

the mood witchy and leonine. Clever

pretending my hands are his hands, and

my ribs, boats. My mother calls

the male body ugly; everything dangling

low like ripened fruit.

On an August afternoon so glutted with

light the lake hadn’t been able to hold it all

inside itself, Richard and I had held hands

in the park, in this county, an act of arson.

For the last time, the birds dashing above,

worms limp in their beaks, dead

but never acknowledged

as dead, with the windows open

to summer, we had kissed gladiolas,

the apertures of poppies,

until we were soft and hanging there,

convinced our beauty would last.