Discursive
 
 
The map of your cemetery
is pleated in a drawer,
folds worn soft from use
 
I meet you also
in laminate, preserved
newspaper, a space
to seal your influence
 
And you impress a moment
upon me, photo blinking
through a frame
 
It’s your words rising
like vapor off the grass
that I can’t quite discern



​
 
For the Birds
 
 
Up at dawn, he hitches
to the closet, selects a loved thermal,
combs his hair and swallows
a day’s pills. The scoop waits
by the bag of black sunflower seeds
in the barn, the feeders
near-empty thanks to the jays.
He will head into town for coffee
and a paper before his wife wakes.
 
She sleeps late, night-mind
tossing as body settles.
She lets her joints know
she will be sitting up,
shifting her legs to the side
and heading to the stairs.
Her teakettle heats as she watches
a red squirrel shoot up
a branch. She knocks on the window
and startles it. Two nuthatches
peck at seeds.
 
She dials a friend, then her son,
“This getting old is for the birds,”
she says, “imagine everything good
that is going to happen to you is over.”
She straightens up her dining room,
sets out the winter dishes for supper,
dresses for the day.