I have brought you bananas
to help you die. Your left
eye bulges
in a small pool
of damp scabs, and I try
hard to imagine
a present suitable for your
taste. I will bury
your body with everything,
your molted fur
standing in fresh points of
blood: orange
and lavender tissue paper
to show my respect, latex
gloves
out of cleanliness. Your
sweet nerve,
your average possum body a
gift fit
for this flooded grave, the
milk
of your blindness, thick and
blue
only in death. Until today
the rain had not set in,
winter
still hues away. Your tail
bone
has come undone, a wet
rattle
wrapped in dry wind. And in
the shut
force of a high powered
pellet gun,
your mouth rounds out
in a loud darkness
and in that very instant
of suffering in sound,
I try harder still to think
of sweetness;
instead, I congratulate
myself for digging
your grave with my very own
fingertips,
my hands washed in dirt and
open blood,
and I take the time to
recognize
the shape of this month in
the next.
The sky is just one cloud,
opening and closing.
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