Another day looms:
my fingers weave

this shimmering, barbed
and clinking shroud
from your fragile and ever-
shifting cloisonné patterns;
every night I unweave it.

Daily my throat utters
a dirge made of your
craquelure lines, each
a hair’s breadth.
Every night I unsing it.

With too many eyes,
I can see all your deaths;
I pick one with room
enough for me in it.
When that sacred day comes,

I will finish my work. I will wail
the funeral song
from down in the mossy
shreds of my heart.
I will lie down with you
in the deep gut of the Earth.

The shroud, embroidered
with tiny tight black
stitches, like the ones I use
to close the mouths
of my wounds,

is big enough for both of us.
Now it is my turn.