Death is not a thing--it is nothing,
not even the noise of a dream.
When your stomach lay against mine
I had hoped to learn again
how to breathe in my sleep.
Cicadas are rare now--not the year of their birth.
Not since I was a child have I seen a humming bird,
they have left the colored bosoms of my mother's garden.
In the dewed air of this morning there is only a brief,
unblaming, unsigned note, “I had to leave."
Violence renders a more complete departure--
A blow to the chest forcing the air of you out.
O find a forgotten lipstick, stand before the mirror
and paint great blossoms on my breast,
make shrill, rasping noises in my throat.