these are all the things i do not wish to be 

bled from my memory. in a way i have 

 

nothing at all to give but feathers and depression 

glass—green—holding on to a general fear 

 

of absence, and a prayer said seven times over 

can heal in utterly magnificent ways 

 

or do nothing at all, like a bouquet of wildflowers 

picked for someone you despise. each time 

 

the face of a person you loved is forgotten,

it is remembered by someone else. at night, even 

 

bright eyes appear dark, and a haunting figure 

drags her cloth, holding, perhaps, a naked peony

 

or leafless rhododendron, silent—waiting 

still to be called on.