There is No Translation for the Body at Night
There is no translation for the body at night. The crow’s chest drops
as it calls from the wet grass. Sometimes the dead make a nest
of us. Sometimes the dead are still living, sealing envelopes
with thread inside. Wouldn’t you burn if you followed
the old way home? I mean to say I keep finding parts of bone
on the riverbanks that worry me into a collector. I keep & bleach
the already violent thing. And beside me, the water shifts
like a body in the night. Memory—a crease in the ceiling
growing the dark. Dancing all those years ago, I learned how
to land softly, body caught quiet after dropping through the air.
This is how I deceive you. Water folds over itself no matter—no
matter. Wing held against the ribcage collapsed like a child
in her crib, hands over her ears. There is no translation