Crone: Raising the Dead
for Mary
1.
When I no longer waited for the promised resurrection:
the lighted tunnel or the brutal ways of brutal men.
When I no longer listened to the grinding proclamations
of conveyer belts or looked for murderers or dragonflies
in my rearview mirror. When I no longer spoke in corporate
rhymes of rightsizing, human capital, the ballooning
of things never meant to float. When I no longer flattened
my body beneath engines or dripping machines. I learned
that oil looks like blood in black & white memories: it tastes
like wine when you’ve thirsted for days. I learned a hollow
box is the only shape that can explain death’s vibratory
light. I learned that circles do not bounce or sing or end
or begin. I learned that rewinding is a cruel & simple lie.
2.
Last night you dreamed of your first lover, and I dreamed
of my last while the blue moon dripped like rosemary oil
into the midnight ocean. B. told you that he had been alive
all along. His obituary a cruel love note to inspire a song
in your neglectful throat: your thoughtless refusal to rewind.
D. was as thin as a matchstick desperate to become flame.
The blue moon crawled beneath our doors: the blue moon
flowered inside our sleeping mouths & I asked why did you
marry someone with my name? He said he wanted one thing
to stay the same. When you asked B. Where have you been all
this time? I knew that he was coiled in the tangle of blackberry
vines, the first & last blush of lovers, the tiny hidden pocket
inside your winter coat. We woke to the blue house shaking.