it is prohibited to whisper the names of the dead,
as it encourages them to linger at the doorstep,
and she has already lingered, far too long

My heart races
in the heave of the wind.

on the bed of pelts in the winter cabin. When I woke
they had taken you or you had gone with them.
And didn’t I, so green with sleep, track you
the three days until new snow fell?

Her hand there, on my lap,
could easily have been a five-fingered
flying saucer from the fifth dimension.
For awhile, I just watched and
wondered if she knew where
her hand had landed but it was me
who didn’t know: me with my
six dozen kisses and the great Eden
of my virginity. How
do we not talk about it

to complete the night lying
before the stove’s vents blowing
sooty warm air deep into my
sleeping lungs, clutching

Watts bleeds
as the shadow of the damned
engulfs all the chinga of our lives.

against the winter sky. Dear hierophant, our decision initialed. The muffled sound of the closet
and the machine.

Silence. Not even a mechanical cry —
I wondered if the fault were mine.

Tasted them. You've gained a statue's flavor, like licking the pyramids, or
kissing sandstone shoulders. I mean boulders.

When they finally hear footsteps,
they know the stranger must be near.
Make sure the gate is open,
they remind one another.
They hear clinking —
A bracelet? A chain?