#buhrstone

Morning after morning The awakening village howls Like an insect About to be dipped in amber. I separate myself from the sky But still carry the inevitable Dream of your body Covered in butterflies or in bees. Here’s a living blanket for your grave. Here’s who I’ve quietly become: A slightly wilder version of you. Your hands Knead the dough for my bread And my husband’s flesh, thick and smooth. They wash my breasts and hips, they light My cigarette, they crack my beer. You’ve been dead too long. Morning after morning The heavy amber of you Around my neck, inside the heels Of my boots. I wear your gloves. Your winter scarves, your winter hair, and that heavy shearling coat. Soon I will forget how to preserve you. But for now I continue to dream daily, Morning after morning: your body blooming In yellow wings, thousands of butterflies alighting And you just lie there. Morning after morning the orange grass keeps burning Under the grey grey sky.