Your Mouth A Cave
I fell and fell and fell
for one year, black
the bouldered walls
the circle of stone
in that one episode
you know the one
where the British detective
is always too late to prevent
the second murder, the body
in the well.
The first
murder is without metaphor.
But I was falling down that
well, that cave, it’s stony
circle glittering with stars
green cities drowning in
the half-green moon below.
I kept it’s image on my phone.
In midst of two thousand
shots of friends and flowers
and dogs, our dogs, and San
Francisco, New York, Seattle,
there in the middle of things,
in medias res, is your
dead face, mouth agape.
For one year I kept
that image with me near
that other one of our dead dog
remembering that curly hair
against my face
after the death chemical
coursed through her.
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| Birdy about to receive the needle. |
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