Mar/Apr 2020 • Vol. XLII No. 2 Poetry |

Cortege

The morning is a flattened black tongue. It falls through me like a chain dropped into a well. Each time the dead light a cigarette a star goes out. The hills spark and fade and do not suffer the vagaries of speech. In a drawer, one glove resting near another is all there’s left to say about shadows gathering near the mineral springs like a tight braid in an unseen fist. A drawer is a simple box. In it, a woman masquerading as a name I cannot name. Sweet mother. Blue hills. In your light, my hands are visible. Your face in mine as the water grows still.

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