your black pea-coat on damp earth, invite me
near the bonfire you have made. You cup
your hands as if around a match, enter me as easily
as breathing in–releasing oxygen, dispelling
strength. Smoke snakes around our ankles. A sooty
leaf rises a black-ghost smudges a cross on
my forehead. I carry my shoes across a stream,
stepping barefoot on stones warmed by the sun.
Hemlock boughs are are flattened soft from rain.
In England, a woman washes nappies rinses out
piss while composing a poem in her head. There
are scars where electricity scorched her temples.
If you call me by her name, I won’t answer. I’ll trudge
through fiery leaves that late autumn trees have shed.
I tell you it looks as if someone has been bleeding.
You say it’s the time of year to be lonely. We forage
branches of gold on our way home. We place them in clay
jars to lure love to a table glittering with beads of honey.
This poem can be found in my friend Laurie Byro’s very fine new book of poems, Luna