of Mark Doty's "Tiara"
Riff off of the lines, "of the music we die into / in the body's paradise. / Sometimes we wake not knowing / how we came to lie here"
You die most often at the start of September, when the curtains
begin that slow close of summer. I'm usually in the middle
of some mechanical chore: walking to work or class or revealing
my day to the cat when I hear how undecidedly you ask me
for help, both hands clasped at the throat--to a stranger the act
would seem suicidal. But that isn't the case, I know. I know
because those were my hands, not yours. Strong, cowardly.
I've begged for you to visit my dreams, haunt them
till it leaves bruises under both eyes. At least, then, a trace
of you could be seen. Mother, your silence is salt, punishment.
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