June 2016
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"Wet funeral"
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I feel a cold wind from the back of your mouth
and the weight of a moon on our home,
while she is pushing out from under her door
one syllable of movement at 4 a.m.
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I know now, how she moves without verbs
after you crushed her into the river.
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Do you remember, when it happened
the sound of the deer running from the shore
the ravens on your car
how the dogs would watch you from the window.
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I have never seen a body float upstream.
You had never seen a body float upstream.
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I used to wonder,
why all urban legends come from the country
why all legends demand some blood
why you sleep with a chair under the knob.
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Tell me what has poisoned our garden.
Tell me you can't see her in my face.
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You can only hide so many keys
before the hinges wilt from the frame
and no one can board a door
from both sides.
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And so you scream her name in your sleep
but you pronounce it wrong.
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How could you have forgotten
that ghosts shamble from the crater of life?
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How could you have forgotten
that she was our daughter?