Alone, We Drag Away the Remains
for Norma Hodges
Maybe the tree tired of being a tree,
tired of deer scarring the grass for its fruit,
tired of the fireflies pawing its arms.
You once saw it flapping its branches like wings. Its gone,
the tree we gathered beneath years ago,
like poets, bending branches with no remorse
for the falling metaphorsand you
slicing flesh, white as a nuns habit, seeing
gods hidden truth in a star. Once the mosquitoes found us
we had to go. The air was bright as a bell, but
the soil was cruel. Truth is, we found no points,
no prayers tucked beneath the skin.
And the apples made good pies,
their kisses tartwhich was proof enough.
Previously published in: Moon Reader and When Tractors Are Art (chapbook,