[For Death]
For death we all
have a box and we stack them
on shelves in the back
of our closets. Shoving as much
as possible in front of them. For death,
we have a fire that eats
up the ruin of us. Turning
us to grit, leaving us
to wind. For death, we hide the worn-
out in dim rooms, forgetting
them. Say it’s too far to visit,
they wouldn’t know us anymore.
For death, we have statistics, figures
in the news. Say, “unless we
completely understand the problem,
we can’t address it.” For death,
we give our best as sacrifice—
the air, the rivers, the hearts
of mountains, the majority of what
we haven’t kept. No one looks
death in the face when they pass
on the street. No one asks
“So how was your day?” Death just
comes home in the dark and takes
a long time washing the blood
from their hands.
Field
Here, in the pool
of your moan I rub
my stubble against our
dumb pleasure. Your laughter
sparks evergreen in the long
grass, this lazy field, where even,
if you’ll excuse my bragging, even
your scuffed jeans have collapsed
at my skill for bringing you
to the fringe, the very hem
of wind before we are both
blown open—spread
entirely like this
red blanket your legs
have pinned me to. My tongue
tunes insect-hum at your
ear. Songmaker, soon you’ll
make me sing for you. How
you wanted to earlier
in the car, as we drove
toward this expanse
and quickly it comes—
what I wanted to
become, the knotted
hawk you are
pulling from my throat.
