Hunger

White peonies border the stones of the old foundation.
At the edge of the meadow peacocks fan light
            into small rainbows of flame.
You listen for the soft step of a bear,
            the black paws’ chuff on the leaf litter.
An old road closes its arms around the forgotten,
            fallow fields.
Your brother will return from there in the chiffon silence
            of the afterlife, wrap you in a reassurance
            unavailable from any altar.
And here, where the sun slips into the tangle of forest,
            a barred owl is singing for his supper as he always does
            with a question much like your own.
Who’ll cook for you, who’ll cook for you, who’ll cook for you?