Scatter my bones into the sea,
across the table —
into the cracks of the dinner table —
between your fingers.
Scatter my bones onto the crisping pages that hold together your manifestos,
your classic literature.
Toss my bones into your sweating beverages;
let the dust sweeten the bitter kick.
Toss my bones into the closet where they become
the playthings of ancient history.
Let my bones burn in the sunshine,
melt them and bake them and freeze —
Let them loose in the air so that they form some
they are cold and will need some warmth.
Gather the dust and wear it as a warm bath —
itching and scathing and trickling.
Recreate me in the warm light, in the soft light,
in the snow.
Carve me anew to the fingertips, to the dusty inside,
then touch me, scatter me, pinch me apart
and I’ll become what I once was —
The Sleepless Season
We took off our clothes as fall drifted into winter,
the opaque stockings floated from my shivering legs
like leaves, unsure which dirty plot of land would be
their hibernating home.
We lost ourselves to the dirt
and you fell into sleep so quickly and with so much
blissful weight that I wonder why the same wind
didn’t carry me to the same subconscious nights.
Rather, I sit winking in the still air beside your glowing body,
a leaf full of holes and clinging to some branch.
I turn my lovely colors and pass on here
and it is a slow, deep, sighing season,
until the spring comes, the way it always does,
and we wake from the icy bed and dress —
I wrap the black stockings around my dirty, crinkled legs
and watch your new green body drift away
toward the trees.