Death Mask

If beauty is silent as a bee’s nest,

pinioned to bark and striped

with winter. Always almost

wakeful—her face, cast the gray

of a lark’s throat, goathide, stone-

skinned, cannot—anymore—

have a wish in its lips. What,

behind her eyes, brought this

smile and fixed it? A bloom

of thunder over the sleepless

city, a mother’s gift, the slip—

wet lace, wet trim—the river

gives as a girl sinks into it.

There are days we forget

death, but splint of shadow,

the body remembers its debt—

like a ghost returned

to remind us of its name.