Stumbling about the wreckage, the courier

slips down my ankle

and I never believed her

when she said that the river bred

love affairs, swallowing each host

lost in compass curls of wandering soldiers,

each novembers gave birth.

 

And of ours, our reds ripe in fields back home,

clutching voodoo dolls of us and you,

and tumbling down through all these bruised knees

I never thought I would place a plate

empty till december through to december,

lonely for the coffin crew

to send a slip for this sailorgirl back home

to wear.

 

Could it be that Moses supposes these waves

just to part for rosaries? Dipping my bath

all over my heap of black clothes

I trace circles around my fingers

and good bell tolls for a white feast

and beats on ivory beds.

 

But you are dead.