Next time I wake from sleep
for keeps – from deepest, darkest
slumber – I may come back a little
bird to visit in the summer; my
quetzal pomp, green feathered
grace, singing through my hunger –
when I am gone, I may come back
your pretty bird, a wonder.

Not my stop, but
still the thought of
leaving makes my
heart feel hot – to cross
beneath the buzzing light,
softly into this crisp night.

Red-cheeked,
hair freed,
closed blinds –
supine and un-
done, heart like
a warm gun.

I love how we
sound together –
your crackle of
laughter up the chimes
of my spine, and the
hush hush hush of
my satisfied mind.

now every second is
like the embers of
beggars: tended.

I won't leave much
more than a happy
ghost when I am gone –

some poems, a peace-
ful soul at rest, some
tired, tranquil bones,

quite content to dis-
appear, no tomb
or mossy stone.

My days were sweet,
and bright; I hope
I honored every one.

It was a sturdy ship that I
went down in, and it felt like
rebirth when I drowned and
emerged from the tumbling
surf to wring out my hair and
tie a knot in my skirt. (I learned
to breathe by nearly drowning.)