I like to think I face it

that it stands

vengeful as it is and plain

and does not shield my eyes like God

has no need

 

I remember our first morning

the sun melting the tar

on the roof outside my window

— our balcony

I hung what I could find.

My dresses, make-shift curtains

piled like rags at the foot of the bed

tied each to nails above the pane

and let dyed silk and cotton

cast upon your face like leaves

cast shadow on the forest floor.

 

Time has let me

give up pieces I have harbored

held dear –

so long and not knowing,

 

I was famous for dried flowers

crushed and scattered in my room

Feathers from the pillow in my hair

and charcoal on my hands.

 

I must have loved you

even then, I learned

to sweep

keep water cold for drinking

to take time with things; to mend them.

What became of this?

 

I was young

held together by debris

photographs of red river beds

and oil

versions of DaVinci’s Girl

a baby sprawled naked on the shore

a mother painted at the water’s edge

the staggered curve of a railway bridge.

With you, these diminish.

Love.

 

Love.

Is this what the Fathers meant?

buried scripts in desert urns:

Hold no place.

My books, all read, recounted

tell me this.

the plainness of dying,

its generosity,

to see

that I would bear such small fruits as these,

that you would tend the vine.

 

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– by Shannon Nissa Bailey Powers