Yesterday, the final petal curled its soft lure into bone.

The flowerhead shed clean, I gathered up your spine

and built you on a dark day. You are still missing

some parts. Each morning, I curl red psalms into the shells

in your chest. I have buried each slow light: cardinal’s yolk, live seawater,

my trenza, a piece of my son’s umbilical cord, and still you don’t return.

A failure fragrant as magic. Ascend the spirit into the design. 

My particular chiron: the record that your perfect feet ever graced

this earth. Homing signal adrift among stars, our tender impossible longing. 

What have I made of your sacrifice. This bone: it is myself.

Related Poems

Corpse Flower, Luna Moth

     The deep wine
of it risen tall above
           the buried
	    corm,

     its ornamental
spathe furrowed thought-
           fully, to human
	     warmth.

     O un-branched
 inflouresence, amorpho-
           phalos, misshapen
  	     swelling,

     with its allure
of rotting flesh
           for the scarabs
	     to follow,

     hollow, to the sun-lit
trove, as though all
           dark were light
	     unbidden

    by our parsing
eye, and love itself
           hidden inside
      the word.

     Call it life
enrapt with death’s
           blight, blooming
                   briefly.


~


      Emergent morning
in the sweet gum triggering
            green, green
                   its wings

       fanning translucent 
below the porch light—angelic,
	a palm of light 
	       opening.

       Hallowed, hatched
each instar inches undercover,
	a spent thing
	       climbing

        larval, alluvial,
out of every cycle’s shelf-
	life, its rife
       	       unknowing,

        to become this end—
brief birth flying, flown, thrown
  	at midnight into
	       beginning.

        Mouth-less, it appears 
something bidden out of the dark,
	out of the broadleaf,
	        unmoving,

         to say something
wordlessly—the word we too
	can neither speak
	        nor sing.