THE MOURNING AFTER
The morning after the pine trees
froze still, we woke up honey
tongued and arms wrapped smoldering,
pulling close cinders, four lung
ice ponds too thin in the middle,
and the sound of a body going in.
The morning after you fell ice
pond through I stood chest
expanding outwards towards the
mountain morning fog I didn't
understand but wanted to become.
Your fence post legs, my “maybe
I should go” shoulders, all of it
laced boots, all of it the back door,
all of it slow motion ice water
limbs. No fire to bring blood back,
no warm coffee mouth, only
more pine trees froze still.