Plume

  I lost the feather 

   I found that day,

    off-trail and alone

     in winter woods, when,

      for the first time 

        since her death,

          I wanted to believe

           the pieces 

            of my life could

             snap back together. 

            The quill was yellow,

         a shock of yellow stripes 

        streaked the vane. 

         I can still feel

        the stickiness 

      where I pressed it 

     to my cheek.

    The white mite 

    I found later 

   crawling in my beard.

   I still hear the leap

   in her voice

   when she

   predicted

  

  capitalism’s 

  end—

  the new 

  ways

  we 

  might 

  mea-

  sure

  wealth

  to 

  come 

  after.

                                                      Silence is the Blower of the Glass

 

                 And her ghost is plum wine 

                                                     breathing         

                                          in the jar

                                       these wanton years 

                                                                have made of my body. 

         

                          Lord, put on your dark 

                                                                            lipstick and drink

                                                   her from me. 

 

              Press your mouth to the rim

                                                         of my being.

           I will follow the lines

                            in the print of your lips—

                                                             tributaries

                            to the bed of the river

  we swam, which no longer holds

                                                           water, but the tracks

                 of thin coyotes, casings

                                                           of twelve gauge shells.

Image: John Nguru Kamau, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.