she used to make me want to dance like sinewy frogs' legs doused in salt
so when i'm gone she could still steep my bones for soup.
and when my words tried to be music she'd curl a haughty lip and tell me
"oh really now, it's not your best work. it's not about me."
and i rubbed my calves together like a cricket before hissing
that you wouldn't want it to be about you.

i know the sound of her gait on the creaky steps in the oldest part of my house,
and i can recognize her scrawl on every scrap that says "i'm sorry."
someday i will be festooned with white feathers and i'll give one to her
and she won't understand that it's to mark a coward.
she used to spit at me with words that smelled like moth *****,
but when we cut her in half and counted the rings we found she was not so deep or ancient.