Dirge

You and I have buried
the cat's newest kill
in the small round spot
where we intended
to dig our own pond.

It is a hard thing for you:
To hold death in hands
too small yet to tie
your own shoes.
We keen under

an apple tree killed
by early ice storms.
The cat parades on the
top edge of a privacy fence,
its tail flying a victory flag.

On a rock you write BIRD.
It is the burial of paupers.
Prayers to St. Francis fall
heavy and unheard; I
envy you your charity.

I hate you for your innocence.
You heave the rock down into
a mud crater, and the small flightless
thing is crushed again. I fling rocks
like David, aiming for the cat's mouth.

Amor Fati

You are in a boat,
arms limp on its sides, and
she pushes you out to sea with
the dark sail of her voice.

Harbored, anchored.
This is what you were
readied for, become invisible
for, fern seeds in your pocket, and
pressing yourself into the gray
of your own shadow. Her eyes,
searchlights fixing you to the chair.
If you would hear me now . . .

She pushes you over the tide to
that first wave which does not
push you back toward shore.
This is the crest, the love of fate.
Now you are brought into the
fold of gray waves, her finger only
a compass fixed on north, no
oars but your arms.

She folds herself on the couch, in
the dark, her body stretching like
gray horizon to meet you, and
you drift in to be drowned.

-- Alana Merritt Mahaffey