It was that time of the month, naturally. Moon-blood,
you know--not the time to rape nor sow. The time, methinks,
to give them the old heave-ho.  I knew I had gotten my wish

somehow, revenge is a dish best served cold. While out on 
my morning constitution, a squirrel dropped his nuts and ran.
A butterfly, before my eyes, shrank back into "surprise"

a caterpillar. I knew a pond Narcissus insisted
and he had walked me to it years before he disappeared. 
A rippled hag winked back at me, a creepy, crawly monster.

I shrank in fear at my reflection. A water snake, somehow
resembling my ex--something about the eyes--hissed and recoiled
"surprise" at me in horror. Ye jealous Gods, what had I become? 
                        

My cousin, on a mission of duty, that will benefit her greatly,
drives twelve hours to aid and abet our Aunt in her shredding endeavor.

Our Aunt refuses to check into hospital as the doctor ordered.
The hospital will wait until the house is emptied of its secrets.

There are prying eyes, yet my Aunt lives alone. There are decades
of papers to be destroyed before she can rest easy. 

Auntie hasn't eaten properly in months, can't even swallow a drop,
or suck on chipped ice, she says. She tells us she can only manage a carafe

or two of wine each night as it is the only thing that helps her throat. 
She has no idea who Gandhi was but she is suddenly interested 

in protesting death and practicing detachment (except from her shredder).
Cousin Kevorkian is all too eager to help. Auntie may be near death.

The doctor begged her to be admitted weeks ago. Still, shredding
is the important thing, we want no envelope left unturned. 

In between carrying sacks of secrets to the curb, Cousin smokes cigarette 
after cigarette. Having just buried our cousin, who suffered with

lung cancer, there were cartons left over, they couldn't be wasted.
Perhaps, she was longing for a double wide coffin. Nearly a week passes, 

my Aunt does not. The shredder cools finally. Auntie has earned the pleasure
of Hotel Acid Reflux and gets a feeding tube. Cousin Kevorkian

returns to her dogs, needs to get back as her mission is accomplished. 
The dogs bear her no grudge; they have no memories to erase. 

Time is of little consequence to them. As soon as she returns,
she tucks them in every night as she did with my startled Aunt. 

Eyes: Brown not blue, how do you like your girl, Mister Death. 
                        

The day before, I forage in the
woods to make a wreath.
The time of year to gather and pray.

I am putting my life into a circle.
I twist wire and cut boughs, 
Baby’s breath and pink ribbons—
I put away my old grief, my tired complaints.

I have put you there too, old loves—
Acorns for your eyes, blue jay feathers
for your eyes—I am putting my best
black Spanish hat there, my fastest
bicycle from a favorite Christmas.
I am putting my worn shoes there--
Cobblestones from Prague alleys,
Street lamps from Paris. I am pouring
a glass of autumn cider and cutting up
shrimp toast to add to the wreath. I am
picking daffodils and catching lake turtles—
The sun in my face,  I am putting it all
there, around the edges.

When stars fall—
I catch one, I run out of wishes before stars—
But the one that falls into my hands, 
like the baseball that never did in school, 
I put that on the wreath, too.

It shines brightest, it lets me work
through the night, it illuminates your faces
while each of you sleep and I sing your names
into the fragrant morning