There was the rain and your knotted hair,
unruly in that mountain wind. Wild-eyed 
finches swung on Hollyhock spines 
along the banks of Sunday Creek.
 
We wished for wings at our feet to carry us 
over the dark surface, looked for signs 
between clouds and the higher skies. Now, 
not far from that scattered ridge, you lie
 
with the wind and water, where the odor 
of dirt and grass and moldering 
blossoms ploughed you under,
where once we cut across 
 
our hands, pressed them together.
Me plain as a sip of water.
You more beauty than could be held 
in something as soft as a body.
                        

Against the night sky, it’s hard
to tell stars from planets. In rooms 
with old paint and small heaters, 
you covered your head. 
 
I wrapped the quilts tighter, imagined 
myself a good mother, wore the deception
like a pair of hand-me-down shoes 
rubbing my heels raw. 
 
I still hear you kicking the ball. 
I smell the lilac musty after rain. 
Remember? I used to hold you 
as you recited stories of waggery and grit.
 
Go ahead, count my every blink. 
Say the words we can never take back.
 
This wringing of hands and dirty washrags, 
your eyes two black holes. Me standing here 
moonlighting, like it’s my favorite way 
to get through life.