Only slower, that same song, word by word
lowered into your coffin each evening
forwards at first, then backward
for some off-center memory kept smoldering
but why the blanket –face to face
you can hardly tell it's a lullaby, a voice
still warm, tucked into your crib from a tree
that's lifted from the bottom, covered
with doves stuffed with darkness –try
listen the way you once did
though this fairy-like hush finds you
again on your back, jumping and running
and under the soft mud some vague happiness
is coming to an end –try! at least remember
the mouth that opened over the wood and ate.
My poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.