DEAD MAIL
There are moments you lie still
in the first stir of robins,
the chinking of a home,
dried grass and pine cones.
In your head, a clawing for order, husbands
lovers on microfilm, the alphabetical rendering
of your selves, parchment
peeled off the bark of an ash tree.
You've spread yourself so thin,
a few words here and there men never heard,
nor listened to; the flutter of wings
against a windowpane, sucked-in breath
and a door left unlocked.
You've always stood in the palm of thunder
in the wavering breath of lightning
splitting open a heart.
He comes to you in dreams, silent
as a pillow muffling the throat, intoxicating
as the scent of fireweed and bodies in August.
There are too many layers;
you choose the easy way -- a deaf-mute.
You need only close your eyes to his echoes.