Winter Solstice Song
And if we don’t bury the body / it will cook microbially, / flesh separating into its colors / like leaves on a sugar maple— / red, yellow, green on the same / open palm. We don’t need to know why, / only when it will be finished / so we can get on with the / shopping. Spilling. Flushing. / Death sharp enough to slice / a shoe. The whole time, someone whistles / in the next room, or just outside. / We know only what we’ve lost. / Possibly even whom. She /—or perhaps, finally, he— / has already given up trying / to distinguish sound from color. / All is, he whispers on our necks. You are.