Elegy
—for Alesia Tyree
Autumn’s first frost recalls the eon-ache of an endless June, the ceremony hidden in the teacup of the letter u, warming the hand that holds it, & lowercase n reminding us the ceremony ends, teacup rinsed, washed, left to dry upside down on a dishtowel, un- the quiet prefix in the air, unsettling the wary dog who cocks her ear at a footstep, unable to fall asleep beside her who sleeps in the rocking chair. Outside the first flowers that bloom had bloomed— the crocus comes to mind, but the plans are for other flowers more resplendent in the eye, a bird-of-paradise, a bird-of- paradise. . . & it’s so often the case, then as now, that a shadow darting across the sidewalk or the neighbor’s grass is what compels you to look up, an instinct not a choice, mouth agape with some word about to be said, but it stays unsaid, unsaid, as the rock doves winging circles round the bell tower fly suddenly away into other hours, hours no longer ours, & the cardinal in the crabapple sings out its bright notes, counting as a child counts her fingers, one to ten & back again, almost forever.
—Dan Beachy-Quick (x)
