It is three and a half weeks before we dare to go back

I feel him
               here.

Somewhere we remember
               to breathe.

Sentinel reeds, waterlogged grasses, a sluggish pond.
               There is talk of Moses.

Though we are alone
               his ghost turns to look at us.

I fill my pockets
               with stones.

According to the map
               we are no longer lost.

Everything we have

The garden has withered
         everything is lost.

A skin of sweat
         dresses me.

Low flying birds skirt
         over the droop of wasted meadow.

His grave is still fresh,
         broken flints marking grey soil.

I lay stones
         collected from places I went after he was gone.

One of his names on each.
         not only a name of God, he will have all his names.

I take a few handfuls
         from the ridge of soil beside him, smoothing them over him.

They will tell me I must bury these words with him.
         I know I have broken the rules.

She said

She said

I cannot deal with you as she smothered me.

She said
          Your sorrow sours the air. We cannot breathe.

She said
  There is no food in the house as we sat down to eat.

She said
          Look at how we have cut the branches from our tree.

She said
          I am taking all the keys.

She said
         I do not trust you. I never have as she worked her spinning wheel.

She said
          You are cracked, you all are as the light shone through her.

She said
          I do not love him as she sat with his greying body.