We fly north in snow to bury your father. Tall windows of the country
house, the lake a hard fogged mirror. I understand parts when you speak.
Alone we process negatives: bed pan, stale air, mouth ajar. New the dark
irreversibles. Flash of dandelion heads in grass, plastic chairs in shallows.
Early summer light close, Dutch-Mastered. But this the usual ragged circle.
No blood sacrifice. No tongue or hands cut free to keep secrets. Even the
snow not unwhite. But some of us need rage. Talk turns to god, governance,
money. The many scales. Near, the fish slowed beneath the ice. Hard to expose. I run the lake, exhaling him, cold twinge above hips. Winter more near. The trees unmoved, I love you. To the new black dress, I'll pin a gold leaf.
Vol. 40, no. 1, 2011