—for C.J.

The voices tell us stop enjoying it,
O won’t we someday, when the garden sprigs
Of the new clime hold our marrow for
Plenty. No, today we’ll read something new.
A handdrawn image in ink, a dissociated body
Tying veins together like cherrystem knots,
A wide shore for the narrow frame of two
Eyes and barely, meekly, a single heart.
Read on, we say, the rediscovered country
Those callus hands left behind for us—
Won’t they long to know what we thought
Of the pained burlap they emptied and made
Into new clothes for the children? Garments
We wore on holy days, and wear no more.