Friday, April 6, 2012

For Adrienne

The dog smelling sour in her hair: the only creature who presses against me
this hour I learned you no longer breathe. In my mother's house my mother's
words in response: cruel: echo.

I wanted a dog as a child. Instead l listened to Kurk Cobain and the bird bit
my finger from his cage: green if I had to name it. Years ahead I am naked
in a young tub when I learn of your death on Facebook: could you imagine
it would be like this. Your eyes are burning

with Jupiter now: I see you clearer than ever:
not your hands that shook but your voice that did not
the one time I met you in a dress you complimented and I felt like a disgrace. What does it matter

I did not scream at the forest this night I learned.
Lucille welcomes you, pray, Adrienne, around the fire I am sure
you both are dancing. The cat brushing against my back
in the same endless moment: the crickets wake
where I am,

my name does not appear in the atlas next
to yours rising in braille. I would dive into the ocean
if there were one because I am reading the bottom with my finger
tips. How connected in our separateness we are. If dogs howled

now my own howl could be lost inside the collective: safe there I am
more wild than this. And you. You are free.

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