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Long
"There is no other immortality:
in the cold spring, the purple violets open."
—Louise Glück, "Hyacinth"
May spoke
first, and when
the dog barked,
she went—
one shoe
in her hand,
one shoe
on her foot.
The ground squished.
The dead groaned.
As usual,
only a hint of moon
shown in the puddle . . .
And so,
with mud between
her toes, she
arrives home,
half sad/half relieved;
and
as the people pass
on the sidewalk
below, she takes
her place (though
not always at
the window), her
face unwrapping—
her face,
a delicate assembly of light.
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