My dearest rib, if
with the ear
nested in the center
of the heart, you list-
en, somewhere within me, too,
a city is blank-
eted in flakes of ash,
and a flock of geese
cleave the cool winter
sky with the ease
of a scalpel.
The geese overhead seem
to honk where
art thou? And I answer
“here, Lord, in the garden,
where nothing lives,” without thinking.
I have buried the last plum pit
in the softest earth.
I have pitched the wadded
napkin—spotted with wine
from a small sack lunch—over
my shoulder, on which
was written your heart
is a draft, a small imperfect-
ion. Or, your heart weighs
more than can be steadied
with nails—a greased
and slippery thing. I forget,
after wavering long above
this pond, which offers
mud and dead fish as my reflection.
I forget who has left me
to carry this heavy
fist wrapped in blood, inside
this plastic blue
bucket which, packed in ice or salt,
is thrumming still.