Early May


after Simic


The hearse comes up the driveway with no news. At the edge of a rose bush an excitable jay bobs and shakes his head and does it again, again, like a question.


There is nothing on the ground, no tragedies or great joy to come.


This morning I sang Aretha to the neighbors. I wasn’t sure what they’d think, if they’d call the cops, so I went over there, only a towel.


They thought I was a wild animal with one life to fight for, one life to yowl and finally inhabit.


This evening, was it Friday? The underworld did its part by making shadow puppets in the grass and on the walls of our house, branch arms and fingers reaching for the baby’s quilt, like they wanted someone to hug.

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