I have begun the act of making
myself hollow, have found
the hollow that is mine
for crawling in, and when
the daylight lays its bones
along the hillside, and when night
restores the tame shadow
that ran along your hip’s curve,
I will go. I have told the children
not to search for me. And I myself
have washed the wedding sheets.
I walk your path to the river. Beaten
bold by years, it runs wide
as the part on my wintering
head. On the bank where you
knelt, singing hymns to its rapids,
I drive hands like knives
into the lung of its current.
Your river says nothing, nothing.