my name, my lips chapped
beneath noon-bright midnight
skies that dance an interpretive
odyssey, I would hold her
hand in mine, crying. She would
look across the snowfield, singing
of the Seer's tower in whispers like leaves
turning red and falling, then
like day to night, drying into
memory carried on the wind.
Her hand would grow cold in mine,
and together we, turning toward the end
like the sun in November,
would let the snow blind us
in its infinite wisdom and grace, letting
ourselves die.
Five years ago, she called me from my room
with a voice like steam rising from my cup
of tea. I didn't move or breathe. She
called again, and steam fogged
on my glasses. My lungs hesitated,
and I let go of the highest branch, falling
into blood-stained grass, the heifer,
still warm, beside me, steam rising
from the red cavity in its side, as grey
drizzled down, its eyes drifting
from black to that empty white
that filled my mind after saying
goodbye to my best friend
as he, quiet, slept in his final bed.
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