bread thrown & bloated, as if speaking the sin
out loud could make the sun into a button, holding shut
the split of seasons sharpened in flame, blurred smoke &
birds dropping from blackened sky somewhere
over new mexico, though today is not outside time, it’s inside
a clock struck again & again by a granite fist; us masked
& rocking as if the word could set the birds down
in softness,
with yitgadal v’yitkadash— the knot
is that i’m trying to make this neat for you: birds &
sky & triangles pinned in pink & yellow, rutabaga & snow
the color of what’s left: a pillowcase filled with tangles
she made to stay alive. one for each day
i can’t unknot now
(hidden in caves, the children watching what was done)—
but please don’t say i’m sorry. say clove hitch.
shroud knot.
butcher’s loop.
in softness,
with yitgadal v’yitkadash— the knot
is that i’m trying to make this neat for you: birds &
sky & triangles pinned in pink & yellow, rutabaga & snow
the color of what’s left: a pillowcase filled with tangles
she made to stay alive. one for each day
i can’t unknot now
(hidden in caves, the children watching what was done)—
but please don’t say i’m sorry. say clove hitch.
shroud knot.
butcher’s loop.