A grieving mind is wild dogs & flowers.
It wags a center like a stamen, like a dusty
yellow tongue. It soothes the heartache of a widow
as she grips a wooden spoon,
plumping up a chicken in a pot of sliced onion.
Her bad husband undid her apron.
He was risen shining-fresh from the land of the dead.
His hair gleamed like wheat. He led her to bed.
It was in a book I read, when I was too young.
When her new husband took her it sounded
uber- sweet. His hair was slicked black as a blackbird’s
wing. He hid their bodies chastely beneath a white sheet.
From death’s windowsill, this sound:
______________________her first husband, laughing . . .
In summer, when you lay your book down, the last
of the orange sun goes raging in the field. Then
your mind is filled with fire & lake & love
can drive you crazy; make milk
taste whiter. When my mother gets her heart broke,
her head goes like orchid. In the kitchen now
dinner’s getting tender; the bones begin
to poke through their own meat.