On the Desire to Levitate: Poems

Elegy

38 Elegy This scab on my back is from your scattered attic, half-moon on my palm from your funeral, how we tucked the photos of your children into your breast pocket. Your arms, coffined, were barn fence; I picked up this stutter from Grandmother, blackclad bird. This bruise from digging to transplant your roses—found a worm, one tossed unraveling cigarette—and the shape of the bed was grave plot though I didn’t mean it or stop until my lawn was half-dug. My ears are ringing always with your cuckoo. Sneezing from your old letters, thin as fly’s wings, and photographs: one shows your brother, arms raised high in a forest, hands draped with snakes like two chandeliers. When we cleared the house I stumbled on your snakebite kit; I broke the vial with my heel. That whole day was end, nothing but. ...