Why this day you’re going so much wind?
When you’ve gone I’ll go back in alone
and take the stillest corner in the house—
the dark one where your dark-eyed ghost
will find me whipped and choking back my rage.
I won’t show my hatred to their food.
I have to live here with these shaking hands.
Find a home with heat, some stranger
who’s indifferent to your dirty dress
and loves you for that quiet frown
you’ll own until you die or kiss.
The wind is drowning out the car
and raising dust so you can disappear
the way you used to playing in the fern.
Some day I’ll be too big for them to hit,
too fast to catch, too quick to face the cross
and go away by fantasy or mule
and take revenge on matrons for your loss
and mail you word of faces I have cut.
Be patient when the teasers call you fat.
I’ll join you later for a wordless meal.
Then I’ll stroke the maggots from your hair.
They come for me now you’re not here.
I wax their statues, croak out hymns
they want and wait for dust to settle
on the road you left on centuries ago,
believing you were waving, knowing
it was just a bird who crossed the road
behind you and the sunlight off the car.