Beyond this Life
Ask her to set fruit out to scent the table
as nightfall turns the trees white.
We will be coming in. We have bent
to our work for a moon’s cycle, lifting
heaven from the field. Look back
over the cleared vineyard, where the sun
wells yellow against the horizon.
We go about in our angel disguises,
acting as though there is a trap door
in the graveyard. Finally enough work
has been chiseled away that we can breathe,
though something cries from the edge
of the woods, and we find we are far from the house.
Before we go in, where the room is red with love,
explain something to me. Teach me
your foreign alphabet, and I will split
a walnut to reveal the ace of hearts.
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