to let grief in. It’s trailed me long enough,
sulked outside the door while I took anger out
in the bedroom. There were lovers, numerous.
And trinkets abandoned in nests: longhand
notes, photos of the original family, pairs of earrings,
the good silver. And from all this negotiating
we gain what? The dead stay dead. It isn’t
necessary to understand why. Wolf pays no mind,
knows only teat and teeth. So what will appease
me? The tree shelters both mouse and owl, its empty
places a comfort for what lives. Suppose this design
was visible all along. Is everything invention?
My cries echo among pines in every direction.