NUMBWEED

I am become
a sightless, wandering thing,
where nothing is
and no light dwells.

I am your sapless body
rolled in oak and satin,
your silent mouth
and eyes closed deep as bruises
in your pallid face.

It is your final night,
your choir
and your carnations -
and, at any cost,
your truth -
that draw me to the stillness
of this place.

Inside my head
your flutes are pouring darkness
on my leaves and branches;
cold voices growing down

to root me to this hillside
and the mansions
of your grave.

- Mary E. Choo 

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