WHAT REMAINS

WHAT REMAINS

These gifts, desiccated pine needles,

twinned, even in death,

the small hands of oak leaves in spring,

trailing red gloves,

the misplaced freesia.

All the single shoes alongside the road,

the image of a glove tossed from the train,

issues of abandonment.

A painting of someone I did in high school,

my lost addresses.

The molecules of air where the rose last stood,

the tree too tired to take a stand.

You want my captivity?

I unlock the cage.

You want my forgiveness?

I offer rage.

I’m not the one who will invite you in.

The well is deep, the lid rotted.

Echoing footsteps I give you.

Take it, the sound is free

to reverberate off your ear drums

like an ancestral dance.

Lie down on the pillow

where the wind will find you,

where you’ll find the names of dreams.

The airplane across the sky.

The weight of grass before the scythe.

I give you the chafing bit,

the broken reins, the forgotten apple.

Put the bridle to your lips,

taste the sting of metal,

know how it chains you down.

This is for your time.

I said I wouldn’t write about you,

give you shape.

I give you what remains outside the poem

long after the cows have come home,

the barn door open to the night.

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