The dry cake of burdens like bread,
the moss of flour grain, heavy
decision not to buckle, nor to weep,
but to face the frigid air
with grim solemnity
like hope
is the leaven and this oven is alright.
I gathered acorns from the yard
and brought them to your feet,
upon my knees and elegiacally declaring
that "Winter, my lust, has
blighted the harvest
prematurely, and our children are lost,
and the time that we tried
so hard to preserve
has perished invariably."
But I know you've buried,
long before even we wed
one to another and ourselves,
the corpses of birds, gathered
their flesh like dewy acorns together
and dumped them into imperfect graves,
leaving the gods to wreak their work,
and returning to the sink
to hurl and cry.
Indeed, I am not fooled
by your immaculate visage:
I know there are fissures and flaws
so far and throughout and across
your turbulent heart, tumultuous
woman, there is nothing I can do
save love you
as desperately as I am,
and renounce the petty offerings and signs
in pursuit, instead, of more
favourable goodbyes, more
respectable alumni passages
as suitable to village, country folk,
pleasant and idle,
broken and lost,
like children, like gods.
12/26/2016
Richmond