Long Weekend II

Windmills in West Texas twice, once going (the headstone not in place

yet, still a plastic marker), once coming back. In every house

she'd lived, she'd hung crystals in the kitchen window. We took

yours down. The first irises opened just hours later, in the dark

of the side yard.

When the news about your mother came

I thought I wouldn't know what to tell you about grieving,

though when I lie flat on a wood floor I remember how I did it.

My cotton blanket looks like your cotton blanket except yours is electric.


We didn't even hear the dogs: everything is a big deal to chickens.

The desire to bind

the other to oneself, the urge to abandon the other in the thin trees of the park

and drive alone, safely, to a sunny spot in the grass of one's own yard.

I like your problems. I like that you wear pink.

Little chinese fans of clouds, and then vertebrae.

I liked being up at that hour but I didn't like why.