How death ghost-writes the memoir
for the fire bothers me;
I desire to edit it, and that I cannot fill
it with periods inlays my intestine with pain.
Leave my mother’s name out of it.
I whisper hoping, my voice will
set a herd of butterflies on peregrination.
Springtime toddles towards a slide.
A few sparrows are born near
one half devoured sandwich on the grass.
I wipe what death has written
on my eyes. Leave. I say
staring at the dark foliage.