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Tula

The linnet will be singing.

A man will awaken on his deathbed,

not yet cured.

—LARRY LEVIS

Blood stranger,

we never met: you died so far away

that here the moment

hasn’t passed.

An alien moon

rises. Hearing

birdsong in the forests of the dead

you pin it

in your mind’s ear:

my inheritance

redacted

to a prosody; by flow & respiration

stripped to contour,

archipelago.

Even your last wordless sounds

are of that music my mother

grieved in:

I want

to kiss you, to understand,

but I have no body—