There are ghosts of all the things we give
& they gather at our feet,
make us feel like gods,
leaf-strewn and still spiraling.
Each morning, darker than amber,
is a hollow crown for the living.
A thousand golden times I’ve tried, but
How can I, mother?
collect memory like the crisp bite it should be
between my lonely teeth.
No want is on the edge of wonderful,
spread for feasting.
No one is at the head of the table,
arms bent in prayer like a sharp question mark.
Nobody is piling up but the dead,
& we sit there as a field somewhere
goes up in flames
by the very hands that tend to it.
& I sit there, patient like I’ve been taught,
waiting until the smoke comes around to me.
& I eat and eat,
until my tongue is rust.
