the wind just lifted the branches outside my sliver of window. my heart is broken. the most brilliant beautiful woman i have ever known just died.
branches. roots.
She-of-constant
bloom-filled kitchen
enfolds, says
you’re lucky
when I tell her I am
studying what she is
living. Bulbs
crinkle at the ends. She
flips from bluebright
surprise. Feathers near
translucent in her delicate
lap rest, inactive.
Her chin yields a fine
crop of protective hairs
I want to reach out
to trace along this
furry slope I have
memorized since
opening my first
book. Reaching pulp.
Scrabble board. Soft
boiled egg. Two
porcelain pigs
on this kitchen
shelf above her boughs.
These wounds used to
thrive, discover, fingerpaint.
I crumble to stars as she pats
my knee. Stops.
Stares at the wall
behind me. Art
has flown; her instructive
smile is replaced by
a lack. Her spark
no longer aflame; the chill
has come and she has fallen
from her branch.
