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outside our field of vision. He’s somewhere else entirely, now close, now looking in, the disappearance nothing more than a trick of the lens, though we fall for it again and again. How like him, we think, then catch ourselves. The leaves turn on their own impulse in our hands. 10
page 15
Requiem You met us again in the outer room. White bone in miniature, glazed earth parting the skull’s cracked continents. With love’s red cloth covering the bowl, we lined up one by one to send you home. A pair of hands took each broken part and joined it with the others in the pile so the pieces belonged as they were laid, tibia, sternum, pelvis, patella nook to nook, against the plain design. In cupped fingers we scooped the firetempered sand, a cloud of chalk over the precious hill. You said nothing, content that we should have our ways of loss, our sifted, falling silences, the plunge of numbed hands under frigid water. Teach me now to love, at their frayed edges the left-behind, their washed and ashen fingers. 11

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outside our field of vision. He’s somewhere else entirely, now close, now looking in, the disappearance nothing more than a trick of the lens, though we fall for it again and again. How like him, we think, then catch ourselves. The leaves turn on their own impulse in our hands.

10

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