Tell me again of the body culled
from the creek; your calves how
they stiffened in its heavy red flow.
Remind me of her neck porcelain
plum scent, rosewater cheeks, and how
you watched their color fade between
the light of weeping bottlebrushes.
Tell me that you’ve known her.
That the bellies water was an act
of song; this poor swallowed ballad.
Or say that this is only the beginning.
How you still believe we will meet
on the other side—-
this brook carrying Spring then to it’s
sides and you and I are not mournful,
but as one as much as the apple rock moss.
The one holding her back before raising her out.
Hair half in air, hair half spread underneath.