Its arms still around her, this dirt
clings between what’s left behind
and the rain —its stones stare backcan’t make out the fingers nearby
easily yours and with each handful
something that is not her foreheadjust the over and over nearness
you pull closer and with your mouth
welcomes this dirt, covers itthe way any helpless wound is kept moist
*
and on her cheeks, something later
no longer remembers, barely dry.
It’s coal you’re after, the part
that burns the way evenings
still grieve in place—you count on it to heat these dead
though in that darkness
half nightfall, halfno longer warm, came
to a standstill
already rolled into oneshaped by the split-second
that opens all stone, stays
forever in its pieces—you collect promises :rocks
owe you something
will break apart, take holdas the whispers they once were
though black is the something
that’s extra, that deliversregroups and even in sunlight
touches your cheek, unsure
helps you remember.
