your stirrings are my own
this cool morning of gray shades, necessary covers
like the dog, paw in his green bowl,
you are loud for food and walk
we pick the last raspberries of October
and the wind blows leaves around us
pretending at sunshine
as we pretend to speak all consonants,
then all vowels
your rest is also my own
when I turn pages, your eyelids flicker
lowering light wakes us
and we race honeybees to find dusky sweetness –
pine needles, broken leaves, grass, black dirt
but a mouse has died under the dining room table
from poison your father planted four days before
elsewhere, the earth swallows our venom
its stomach radiates great fires
on your red plate, thin slices of Honeycrisp,
avocado, sweet corn; the window,
full with half-ripe tomatoes, hot peppers
no one should have to die in pain, afraid
but that is death for the living
the quiet of your slumber settles stairs,
tables and chairs, sills and sofas
your father and I, too tired to untangle our limbs
The Lake, January 2016