The old winter light like the desert.
The memory of war in green places. The dryness
in our mouths, the paralysis in our limbs, the way it feels
to let your skull be heavy against the floor, the rising
and falling, the walk we should be taking
to end the word should, the way it all wells up
between our ears; the songs, the grief, the attempts
to keep the sun on our skin for a thousand years,
to balance at the edge of a ruined hill,
to stand under the planets when the night is so cold
and breathe through our bellies in the dark
and look up. To be full of horizon when the wind is gray
and there is no grave to visit, to yell at the rain, to wake up
anyway, to be kissed anyway, to chop onions
anyway, to fold clothes and talk to angels and sit still
even though he is leaving, even though she is gone, even though
we are coughing and parched and the ending
is unclear, even though the empty hours are coming --
the empty hours are here. Her hair is in a silver box.
The morning glory died. The cactus downstairs
has small pink flowers
that bloom like stars in November
on broken arms covered in spikes.