Peeling the rags of sleep from eyes
Unpiling the stones of night’s tomb
collecting them carefully to carry all day
Sweeping up the shards of final
shattered dream of the lover who left
(which is only as final as a wave)
and emptying them into an urn
shaped like a glass
Legs spread like the cut through
the center an apple; practiced fingers
touch the star and scatter the seeds
Nubility breaks
through what was
an impregnable damn
The water rush does not clean
but snaps trees and swallows houses
and destroys what practiced life
has settled in the valley
Daughters of
Jerusalem, I charge thee:
Do not awaken love
until it so desires
All these offerings to gods
we did not think were real until
we lost our lush to their jealous wives