by Kathleen Kirk
Bury me deep in the river of grass
in my neighbor’s yard.
I am but the floating girl in the ragman’s memory,
his danger girl, a nightmare in pink.
I am but the kiwi target of his soldier’s heart,
his neon mirage.
It’s all pink now, or magenta, or pink & white:
wild columbine, ribbon & lace
trimmed collars of Sweet William, all a lost
history—a cold-blooded business,
this severing. Try to report on probability
from the edge of sleep.
Compare the movement of mountains
to a bee’s flight, sure of a world
restored in honey. For one desperate moment, I hold on
to an ecology of care, then let go
the slippery hitch, watch it drop
metallic to the canyon floor.
Copyright © 2009 by Kathleen Kirk.