The sorrow birds find what is weak,
my chest, beak-marked, my eyes
long gone. You left
is the wrong way of putting it. If death
is a doorway, I am gate seeker,
key monger, sentry.
There was something in your body
that couldn't be snared
by fang or talon.
I have heard it whisper from the hall,
felt it pass through me sudden when
your face appears
in an old painting or
rides the edge
of a ring's coral flush.
A monument is an effigy is a cage of straw.
Ash of bone is not the same as bone itself;
a shroud in water seems alive but isn't.
What spells are left to us, I will root them out.
What I know about forests is they always grow back.