Interview with Lee Harvey Oswald

Let me ask you one more question
Had you ever shot a man before?
I take your silence as implied confession

Carved in my mind: your Byzantine expression
Found on your face ere you hit the floor
Let me ask you one more question

Was killing John your sole obsession?
A President we could all adore
I take your silence as implied confession

You maintained your sight on the grand procession
Then pulled the trigger, not once, but four
Let me ask you one more question

Did you act alone or in succession
with others who formed a conspiracy corps?
I take your silence as implied confession

May God forgive you your transgression
As you knock with hope at Heaven's door
Let me ask you one more question
I take your silence as implied confession

Dead at 39

I am no longer of myself, but of a communal picture, living at large. When I place my hands on the lectern, I feel voltage where none was before. The throng loosens its voices though the well of my soul sinks deeper. I once stood at the foot of this mountain, but now climb to the pinnacle; its peak is within reach.


Metamorphosis
From colored boy to icon
The fruits of my thoughts

I am no longer fearful, though you fear me, fear my credo. I am not here to change you, but to reshape your world view, as did my namesake four hundred years ago. I also can list ninety-five reasons: One, I am a human being. Two, my rights are equally guaranteed by the Constitution. Three, my wife gives birth to babies just as yours does. Four, I am not defined by the color of my skin. Five...

No longer deny
My selfsame humanity
I am your brother

Memphis has become my Jerusalem; hidden amongst the crowd lies a snake, which my heel cannot crush. This weight works itself into my face, trying to contort my message, but the weight will turn to buoyancy, my words will become golden. I stand now on the balcony listening to a song in my mind: Take My Hand, Precious Lord. I see the snake.

Vict'ry flashes
Sending me to the mountain top
My dream is at hand

Good Counsel Home, 1963

The first time I saw Tula,
she was cracking an egg over
a yellow bowl the Housemother and I
had found at Goodwill that morning.

The trick is to beat it until it’s good and foamy,
she said, a matchstick dangling
off the edge of her lip, nearly falling
into our uncooked lunch.

We sat at the counter, balancing on bar stools
still funky from bleach and ammonia, slurping egg-dumpling soup,
taking reluctant bites out of apples
we’d picked up with our AFDC checks.

Tula was ready to pop, though she never complained
about the silver ribbons snaking across her gut or the
bowling ball sitting on her bladder. I saw her once, scratching her
backside, working her index finger like her ass was made outta Playdoh.

Two weeks later, Tula was on kitchen duty again.
She stood there with her deflated belly and eyes like a basset hound.
I asked if she knew who got her kid.
Sneering, she took two brown eggs, and raising

her arms high over head, she smashed
them together, the yellow yolks sliding
down her wrists, shells falling in her hair,
whispering, who the hell cares.

Once Upon a Bed

Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress
You’d never know, to look at them, they weren’t married
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

They shared two children, a dog, with great success
Between day-care, school, and work, they often ferried
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress

A trip to Dr. Bahrain, lymph nodes he did access
At that precise moment, they began to feel harried
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Where does one go when one seeks to convalesce
With family? Alone? The choices were varied
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress

Lou said to Tracey, “Back to your mother’s, I would guess.”
But, “Tsk, tsk, tsk, it’s a shame you never married.”
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Two rings turned up on that last day along with fancy dress
Into the crypt went mother’s tears; the rings regretfully they buried
Tracey and Lou owned a PosturePedic mattress
Most telling was Lou loving Tracey with a light caress

Our Bliss

The requiem of our bliss begins
as I unlock the birdcage of my heart,
freeing all kept promises, cleaning out
the spent seeds and stale water.
You know my gestures intimately;

you’ve watched me dozens of years.
The requiem of our bliss begins
as I open my mouth to mourn,
recalling the chariot of our wedded life.
See how it trundles along, broken and squeaking.

So, too, has our love passed from ecstatic trills
to shrill whines—a dismal threnody.
The requiem of our bliss begins
as I unclench my hand, releasing our love
to find its resting chamber.

Our certificate of vows must slip through
bent spindles that once bound us together.
Let it pass.
The requiem of our bliss begins
as our bands fall onto shredded newspaper.

I lay our photo upon the flame;
the edges curl and blacken.
Your face furrows as I snuff out our attachment.
I am burning you out of my heart.
The requiem of our bliss begins.

The Last Fugue

That’s the way it sounds to me
My hand dragging in the water
As you bow her violin in key
We laugh and drink Vichy water

My hand dragging in the water
The contrails in the sky
We laugh and drink Vichy water
You say her name, but I don’t cry

The contrails in the sky
Hang like my heart in stasis
You say her name, but I don’t cry
I give you my last quarter with two faces

Hang like my heart in stasis
Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
I give you my last quarter with two faces
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin

Until it bursts into a fistful of coins
As you bow her violin in key
Throw it in her grave, I enjoin
That’s the way it sounds to me

Flying

Tu ne seras pas oublié.

You were not ready when you flew from earth,
snatched, like a bird in a storm.

Now I sit at your desk writing the last words in your journal.
I pour out your shampoo, sudsing my hair twice a day
until there is nothing left.
I paint my nails while emptying your imported bottles
of Le Rouge Foncé and Rose Scintillant.

Birds feast on your half-eaten bag of Cheetos I shake,
salting the wind.
I burn your cinnamon candle down to a nub,
leave on your night-light until the bulb burns out,
open to your bookmark, finishing Baudelaire’s final verses.

Then I lay my head on your pillow,
inhaling your lilac memory,
pull up the yellow cotton sheet,
and dream your last dream.

My aching heart hears you whisper
Allez à Paris.

When I land at Charles de Gaulle
every face I see is yours—
blue-gray eyes
chestnut hair
fair face dotted with freckles.

And then I see him:
the Frenchman in your dream.

He smiles at me, steps forward.
His cheeks press mine,
right and left.
I feel the rasp of his peppered beard.
But I know you want more.

Standing on tiptoe, my arms wrapped around his neck,
I look into his brown eyes, pleading
“Une fois plus pour Jacqueline?”
I hold my breath.
“Avec plaisir,” he replies.

And we kiss like old lovers,
lingering on
until the taste of his lips cannot be forgotten.

What Happens on Sycamore Street

She waits in a house at 743 Sycamore Street
where the sun shines so brightly on the sidewalk
it looks iridescent and pink morning glories bloom
all day long in shadows, where a cat prowls silently
between houses, terrifying song birds, and at last
she admits she is waiting to die.

“My sweet potatoes, planted this spring, didn’t die
even though we suffered drought, but up the street
Mrs. Hoover’s fall-bearing raspberries didn’t last
the summer,” she says as she looks down the walk.
What she doesn’t say, what remains silent,
is how she wonders about her own fading bloom.

Her groom holds her hand, a mottled bloom
on his cheeks. “Nineteen years and…” but his voice dies
away as he thinks ‘til death us do part silently.
The cat chases a squirrel across the street
just as a Honda drives by. Squeals, then driver walks
around the front of his car, looking at the last

chase Fresko will ever enjoy. With effort, at last
he leans over and picks up the body, lays it in blooming
asters growing in the boulevard, wipes his hands on the sidewalk
as if the roughness will cleanse his palms. His is a die-
hard attitude, no need to find its owners; cat was in the street,
what can they expect. In 743 Sycamore, they watch silently.

“Do you think,” she asks, breaking the silence,
“that our neighbors will come to the funeral, my last
big show,” she adds with a tepid smile. “I’ll throw a street
party,” he says, “but I am a madcap, my love, my blooming
rose. Let’s us a party today, tonight before evening dies!”
Outside a small girl cries, kneeling on the concrete sidewalk

skinning her bare knees. Her father lifts her up and walks
down the road, crossing Sycamore, while mother silently
trails behind holding a blanketed ball of cat, now dead.
“Wrap me in a shroud like that cat when I die,”
she claps a hand on her mouth, shocked by her last
comment. He wraps his arms around her, sniffs the bloom
of her hair, freshly washed. “Tonight, babe, we party in the street.”

All things living will die, but how long we walk
on this Earth, how many streets we silently
traverse until our last is a bloom that cannot open until it drops.

Reclaiming My Poetic Muse

I am ashamed to admit, I have lost my muse
I suspect my muse—I shall call her Trix--
wandered into the forest, lured by a wreath
of myrtle and roses, a laurel upon Erato,
but a noose on the neck of Trix. What
am I to do? My patience wears thin

I have called out loud, I have whispered thin,
“Trixie, dear, you are my voice, my only muse;
without you I am an oiled chair, dampened firewood. What
else can I say? When you return, my trixiest
Trix, we will eat dictionaries and tattoo ‘Erato’
on our breasts. I will weave snapdragons in a wreath

circling your head a dozen times with wreaths
of lavender and jasmine. On your tongue, thin
slices of crystalized ginger and we’ll watch Erato’s
favorite movie six times in a row. Trix, my muse,
my dear, come back to me.” In agony, I wait for Trix,
but not even a bird’s twittering…I hear silence…what?

Someone dares toy with me? Baits my heart? What
beast are you to fool me! To wrap my mouth in a wreath
of thorns! I implore, I beg like a leper. Do not trick
me with illusion! Trix, could that be you: a murmur thinly
slid under my tongue? Unscale my eyes, unloose my muse,
step out from the darkness and face me. Is that you, Erato?

My confusion soars. I see my Trix kneading bread with Erato.
Trix turns to me and asks, “Did you bring yeast? What
else would make this wheat rise into words?” My muse
stands there, askance, hands on hips. A wreath
of questions she asks me, but waits for no reply. My thin
hand holds no answers, but a pinch of leavening. “Trix,”

I say in my smallest voice, “Come home, my Trixie
lover.” “I am only on loan, you know, from Erato,”
she tells me sadly. “But what must I do to gain you?” I thinly
whisper. Trix smiles then, spreads her arms wide. “What
must you do? Only this: write an epic, write a wreath,
write a mountain and an ocean. Then I will be your Muse.”

And so with my thin pen and a pocket of tricks culled from Rogets,
I write daily. My trixiest muse shares her secrets, out of Erato’s earshot,
and together, come what may, we write words to wreathe our fates forever.

The Gift of Waiting

We are waiting for the end of advent,
but are we expecting the Christ child?
Or are our thoughts on ribbons and gifts
circling the tree like an electric train?
Christ is with us now, and yet we wait;
we hold our breath in anticipation.

Half the pleasure, you know, is anticipation.
The third candle, lit on the wreath of advent
burns joy—we are closer than half way—but wait!
Just wait a little longer. It is hard to be a child
waiting, not knowing, but the waiting trains
us to bide our time, hold still for the Gift.

We tell our children about the donkey carrying a gift,
wrapped in Mary’s womb. We smile at their anticipation,
watching them fidget, tiptoe, and whisper. Their train
of thought headed in one direction: the eve of Advent.
A ceramic nativity scene high on the mantle, a child
can only look, not touch. Like a spinster, we make them wait

for Christmas Eve, for the Bible lesson read aloud. Wait,
wait, wait. When all they want is to tear open the gifts
and shout, “Look what I got!” I was a once a child,
I remember. After the wrappings are undone, anticipation
fades. But here is another mystery, Advent
is not over. Epiphany comes like the twelve-fifteen train

down the tracks. We count down to twelve: the train
the days, the leaping lords. We watch and wait
for Epiphany, the bookend of a month-long advent.
Three Kings’ Day marks the twelfth night, marks with gifts,
the climax of Christmas. The waiting, the anticipation,
the longing are over. Now we celebrate the birth of our Christ-child

Somehow, compressed though it is, we watch this Jesus-child
grow up to be a miracle-man who calls his disciples and trains
them to wait. To wait and to watch with holy anticipation,
while he washes feet and feeds the hordes that also wait
for the time when the three wise men’s gifts
will be used to anoint and prepare the body of the King of Advent.

This anticipation we feel, like a child, eager and open,
leads us through the days of Advent and trains our hearts
to wait for the kismet of Jesus as he becomes our greatest gift.

The Reluctant Villanellist

Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?
Has he ever tried writing a double-wrapped sestina?
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So I’m telling you, in today’s column, punt and free throw
Just like that, he says, write like a poetic ballerina
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

I throw my hands in the air, too disgusted to just “let it go”
Heck, I’m the Mindful Poet™, covering the poetic arena
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So I tell him, Mr. Robert, form poetry is a lot of show
But it has no depth, no imagery, no rhyme, and no patina
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

Form poetry is a waste of time, stupid, dumb rondeau
Those of us who are smart will write like Sappho or Athena
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough

So take your forms and stuff it; I’ll write like Vince Van Gogh
And with my satchel bulging, jet off to Argentina
I want to write poetry that’s lucrative, pulls in gobs of dough
Form poetry, says Robert, is fun, but what does he know?

Not Counted

I am not on the list of names
Mournfully read each September eleventh
Won’t someone weep for me?

Hunched in the alley between two towers, that was me
Sleeping off the Smirnoff vodka, forgetting my name
One of many, one of eleven

Into the tower’s north face, came crashing flight eleven
The omnipotence of America fell on me
But no one remembers my name

Me and eleven other cardboard box bums, along with our names, died, too.

Buried on the Lone Prairie

Mrs. Cranberry dug a trench in the flower bed
just to the left of a row of tulip bulbs.
Her son Ensen knelt down in the upturned dirt,
his arms cradling a silent bundle.
Cotton-Candy's mews had long since died,
her body stiffened like an icicle.

"This past winter," he said, "an icicle
fell point down in this very spot, this snow bed
that'll now hold my Cotton-Candy. She's died
now, Ma, she's really gone?" Her little bulb
of life is passed, Ma agreed, as she bundled
her thoughts together. Earthen smell of dirt

rose to her nose, a test, she thought of the scented dirt
harrowed by Mr. Cranberry last spring, after all icicles
had melted and they'd laid their bonny lass, bundled
in a tattered quilt, pulled from her straw bed,
in the yellowed prairie land. No daffodill bulbs
had been planted then, but now, where she'd died,

they circled her grave, waving as if nothing could ever die
again. Why did she die? Ma's tears fell in the dirt
making splotches of mud, like minature dirt bulbs
into which Ensen laid Cotton-Candy, stiff and cold as an icicle
"Ma?" Mrs. Cranberry looked up, her heart a bed
of cut glass, "Yes, Ensen?" "Could I make a bundle

of money by going around and praying for the bundles
of children that died last winter? You know, died
from the fever?" His mother stepped back into the bed
of flowers, shocked. But his face showed no malevolent dirt
despite that he'd stabbed her through the heart with an icicle
of words. "No, child, prayers are free," she whispered, as if a bulb

of emotion were stuck in her throat. "Instead, take these bulbs,
dig them up, and sell them for a dime a bundle."
He saw the tears on her face, a pendent spear, an icicle
of sadness, sliced down her cheek. Thoughts of his cat died
as he jury-rigged a basket of bulbs to sell with still-clinging dirt
on their opaque skins. Ma laid Cotton-Candy in her last bed.

Sunshine on the bitter cold creates icicles that drip into bulbs
below where the bearded iris, in its bed, unbundles its arms,
casts off the dead leaves and emerges like a fluted horn from the dirt.

To Venus, Rhea, Juno and the Rest

The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
Cherokee roses that bloom by day, now stand with folded petal
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

What gift can I offer to the gods that dwell in castles high?
Sheaves of barley, a clutch of pearls, plates of golden metal?
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky

You, my darling, have given all, you’ve nothing left to deny;
you’ve nothing to withhold. For this, you’ve braced your mettle.
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine: he feeds among the rye.
I long for our bliss to bloom forth, roses amongst the nettle
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky

Yet, what of this third blossom, at present, no more than a sigh
Are we to torture ourselves, think a twosome is less than--to settle?
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

Our love withstands gale force winds, hands clasped, we say goodbye
Not wizard nor witch, with twisted hearts and a brewing kettle
The moon hangs low, pregnant in the western sky
You and I, who have said our prayers, wait for a reply

Shelley's Last Word

Now smile said the cameraman as I puckered up my lips
I did my level best, but I'm telling you dear reader, hanging high over ground
With a shepherd's hook levitating me by my clothing
Did not afford much comfort. Hallelujah, baby!
The shot was snapped and I could drop down to stage
Except the pulleys were tangled and I was stuck

A dozen feet looks more like a hundred when stuck
in mid-air. My shirt hung askew, my lips
turned blue as the dutch boy paint that the stage
crew was using on the set. Green for ground
and blue for sky. Simple-pimple, baby!
I was ready to squeal like a stuck pig as my clothing

began to rip. That's one way to make a scene san clothing.
But not one that I wanted to make. "Hey, I'm stuck!"
I yelled. Then Arden Mulski howled, "I can see your baby
fat!" I leveled him a stare to grow hair above his lip
if he'd been man enough to do it. Little blob on the ground.
But he had one over me, he was standing on the stage

while I hung like a treed kite. A real stage-
hand saw my predicament, my rapidly ripping clothing,
and raced to the control pit underground.
"No worries," she hollered, "I'm flipping the switch--stuck!
I'll be jiggered, it's stuck!" I saw her lips
mouth words that even a baby

would blush to hear. The pulley shifted, O sweet baby,
and I tilted, head now aimed straight at the stage
and a cold breeze fanning cheeks not attached to my lips.
Into the theater walks a Romanesque Zeus, his clothing,
but a toga, a prop from another play. I am dumb, stuck
like a mute, wordless, beguilded. From the ground,

he looks up, chuckles and says, "Feet not touching the ground
when I walk by, huh? Happens all the time, babe."
His narcissistic words unpeeled my helpless, stuck
brain. I twisted and grabbed the rope, pulled the stage
crew's attention as they admired my amassed strength. Clothing
notwithstanding, I looked like a cougar with ruby lips.

A thick pad was produced and I stuck the landing as I grounded
myself center-stage. My lips curled upward. "Baby?"
I said to Mr. Aztec. Upstaging him and his clothes, I riposted, "Call me M'am."



Prompts for January 20, due January 26:

The story needs to take place somehow off the ground.
Include an Exposition in your story
Use the words: level, amass, dutch, and hallelujah
Someone needs to do something non-verbal with his or her mouth such as hiccup, cough, sneeze, your choice

Thirteen Ways of Looking at God

I
Among multifarious gods,
The only one offering an invitation
Was the God of Grace.

II
I was of one mind,
split like a trident
Into past, present, and future.

III
The Savior story piggybacks and
Assimilates, eager to stand out.

IV
A shaper and a specter
Are one.
A shaper and a specter and a Nazarene
Are one.

V
Test me not for I can not chose
To live in corporeal presence
Or to strive for the ether
To drink dandelion tea
Or imbibe celestial wine.

VI

Rainbows, full circles, when
Viewed from the other side.
Promises given, but no more
Sacrifice.
No blood of the Lamb.
No unleaven bread.

VII

Your opulence shields you
From the starving Calcutta waif.
Your nescience portends
A future spent in purgatory.

VIII

Brass coins, bells,
The slender neck of an oud
All sing in unison
But you are the
Ultimate rhythm.

IX

When god remained entombed,
Even Peter fell silent.
Interspersed with his denials.

X

At the sight of god
Ascending on golden stairs
Even the double-tongued pharisee
Bent to prophetic omens.


XI

His donkey stepped to Egypt,
Hiding even his scent from Herod.
Once, a leper touched him
Believing in miracles.
He received nothing less.

XII

The throngs are praying.
God transcends.

XIII

It was twilight his entire life.
Dusk prevailed
And did not abate.
God lingered until dawn
When the sun rose.

Earthly Beliefs

There's a few things about me that are beautiful,
but you don't know them. First, I live on this Earth
as a human being, but before I lived here, my friends,
I was an angel. Maybe I ended up here because of lust.
Lusting to eat Braeburns or to hold small, furry animals.
I'm not sure, but lust is powerful. Look it up at the library.

The name of the street where I live is Library
Lane. Down the block, on mornings replete with beautiful
sunshine, I walk to that reverential place, spying animals
along the way. Believe me. Look it up on Google Earth
if you are too incredulous. Some people actually lust
after the name of my street, but not my friends.

Second, I find that I am lonely for friends.
Again, that might be hard to believe and no library
book will confirm it, but I am lonely. I lust
for deeper friendships with souls that are beautiful.
When looking for friends, this small world becomes a giant earth,
which no ship can traverse. And friendless, we act like animals.

The irony is, I am the cruelest of all animals.
So if you can, please send me a legion of friends.
Third, although I am a Christian, I love this Earth;
its splendid woven sky and manufactured libraries
and synogogues, all of it is exquisite. All is beautiful.
Yes, I know. Love not the world for the world is lust,

but if so, then I dive into the glories of earthen lust
as the pious dive into earthen vessels. God made animals
the same as me. Why spurn the handwork, the beauty
that is the Lord's? Instead we ought celebrate, friends,
how perfect Life is. Pour out of your churches, your libraries,
your Starbucks and sing praises of our planet Earth.

Fourth, I believe there is no other Earth
like this one, but that there is drudgery and lust
and salvation in abundant measure. In the Library
of the Universe, I believe we can verify even animals'
souls. Don't be fooled by others, not even your friends
who decry notions like mine. Know that you are beautiful.

It is written in God's library that this very Earth
contains redeemable life, both beautiful and lustful,
both animal and human. Read it in the Book, dear friends.

Crack Baby

Larry's lips form a circle as he blows
a smoke ring into Keleigh's pasty grey
face. Coughing, she opens the window a crack
to breath in the frosty air. It is winter
although no snow has yet fallen.
Larry's bright eyes dance with a song

playing on the radio. "What the name of that song?"
he says. Kel shrugs, "Give me a puff; quit blowing
dry air at me and give." Her resolve has fallen,
like her grades and her hopes, into a grey
pulp of ashes. She looks out the window into the wintry
sky. She feels as if her heart will crack

like a pumpkin after Halloween, crack
like her voice when she sings a song
that's too high, crack like the first ice in winter
when she steps gingerly on its glass. Blown,
Keleigh has blown her chances. When she's grey-
haired and wrinkled, she'll look back on this fallen

day and ache like a mother bird whose chick has fallen
out of the nest, too young to fly. The shell cracked
but the wings still folded. Its only hope is its grey
plumage to cammoflage it in the dirt. No song
sings from bird's beak or woman's heart. No blowing
winds of hope lift either spirit. It is winter.

Larry hands her the pipe, "Here's your woolie, you winter-
strawberry." Keleigh cradles the pipe, looks at her weightless, fallen
man. Abruptly she wants neither the screw nor the crack. "Blow
it yourself; I don't want your Love," she says with a voice that cracks.
"Bitch," he breathes and turns up the radio. Wainwright sings a song
while strumming his guitar, in his nasal twang, "When it's grey

in L.A., I sure like it that way..." "Effing country, all gloom and grey
music, that sh..." Larry starts, but looks at Kel glowing in winter
white shimmer, winter white glory. Humming a new song.
"What the hell...", but his voice whiskers away, falls
into silence, like snowflakes at night. He cracks
his pipe on the counter, sneers, then takes one more blow.

Each bird sings its own song, flies on its own grey wings.
Battered by the blows of wind and the bitter breath of winter,
the timid become lost. Fallen feathers sift between the cracks.

Moving to Hospice

Arlo sings to me right now,
Can you dry every tear...take every hand that death has consumed?
I know Barbary needs a hand
when her sister passes she'll have a river of tears
that not even my cupped hands will hold.

My dog stands behind me
She's crying and pacing
for her boys, my boys, who have gone
out to play in the field
outside the gate where she can not go.

The sky is light blue, dusk will soon fall.
I see our willow tree greening up along
its strands that hang like pearls,
like a rasta-man's dreads swaying in the wind.
The willow is dying, too.

Now Arlo has played the last notes of
"Gambler's Blues" and the people clap
their hands, whistle. I'm sure they smile
to one another, nod their heads, sigh.
But what of Barbary's sister?

Maybe she's sighing, too.
Maybe she's listening to Arlo right now
remarking in her head how she used to
listen to Guthrie when he first started strumming.
She sighs, knowing he'll keep strumming
even when she no longer can listen.

Memory

That was a bright and bitter day
The phone rang
She called, for the last time,
simply to say, "I love you"
and nothing more.

It took me a moment
to grasp her message
the way her breath caught
like snowflakes on lashes
a thistle seed on argyles

But when at last I understood
her meaning,
it was too late.
There was nothing left
but an empty dial tone.