It’s never why
it’s only when
the extra letter
fits the pain
a man
a tree
a long-haired girl
remind you of the moon
you once believed
but now you don’t
all courage in an empty cup
you drink to him
gall is made
from wine
gone bitter
in a broken heart
you turn away in shame
Narcissus at the touching pool
enthralled by what he sees–
beauty is the beast
all hair
and teeth
and bone
she is the
rhythm in
this poem
her days
are numbered
she stops
to slow
them down
the old cowpath
the barrels
the apple tree
the gray porch
her father
coming home
carrying
his bones
the men on
the loading dock
calling her name
this is what she remembers
a young girl’s life
danger everywhere
a woman’s crying
the redness of it
tears for something torn
a favorite dress
a picture of an old love
a memory
a
shell
casing
tumbling
through
thick air
a dog dead on
her front lawn
behind her
footsteps
scuttling leaves
backs raised
ready to pounce
everything is
dangerous tonight
sound hurts
On fire in
the afternoon,
a woman
in a shroud
is cleaning
her own skull
of its flesh;
she has
dug herself
up and is
burning in
the bright
daylight.
Polished bone
is mirroring
back what is
left of her face.
Holes are
everywhere–
eyes,
ears,
mouth–
no one has
heard her voice
for years.
Buried,
disinterred
and buried
again;
now, she
can speak
of return–
silence,
smoke,
intimidation,
incineration,
tapping bone,
bird song,
hard stone,
conflagration–
and of the
day he came
carring a
small lyre.
the place was set
but no one came
she waited for an hour
and then she ate
pistachio and pumpkin
chestnuts and white truffles
outside the rain
the waitress was kind
and left her to her pain
the other diners
pretended she
was not alone
and smiled at
the lonely woman
sitting by herself
French restaurants in fall
the opera crowd
with season tickets
the sommelier
the taste of taro on her tongue
the bitter root of love denied
coffee and a sweet dessert
she paid the price
outside the rain
they picked me
up and put me
down and told
me I’d be found
the light ahead
was not for me
the sky the moon the stars
they could not see
that I was standing still
I ran and ran and ran in place
to chase them down–these
things I dreamed were
dreamed for someone else
the bitter fruit
the barren tree
the songless bird
were all for me
I wore them well
these dark things
around my neck
until I couldn’t breathe
I will not stay
to see them leave
who reads these
poems cannot
know me I
didn’t bury birds
they buried me
Sorrow is as sorrow
does, it holds the
hand of all it loves;
when blue is bluer
than the sky can
bear it lifts it up
and holds it there.
Come visit me
in this sad place
when what you
love has turned away.
I know the names
of all the flowers
they come to me
in desperate hours.
rlmcdermott 