Aubade in E from Issue 55
The wet voice is soft, a slow transfer of touch,
breath returned to the sun, now breast plated and all tense
with spears. So much opening sex, hushed mandates
and decisionsㅡout here the living can’t sleep along.
The proof’s one communal array of baby
doves. Yet a voice says questions survive in the unseen,
in a seed’s cracked shell, the red core uncontained.
What’s left once any lover’s gone? It’s the soul lifting
its dirty hands, a fall back of flesh to salt,
jeans on the floor, a slow walk home. Today’s the first day
of pink lips and unapologetic green,
Springs’s opera staged beside every dying
crocus head. I hear a thousand awkward sounds, the sweet
silence of the body abandoned, a voice the body loved.