I cut through comforter
mattress and frame to find it
twisted under corkscrew tongues,
cotton mouthed on molted feathers
folded in the bruised knuckle knots
that muffled amorous arrhythmia
I saw the tremor
an egg white quiver
splintered by the slats
in a stoic stare
I found you there
Stiff finger sticks
bundled together
my name
a still born love poem
a too young obituary headline
Wrinkled beyond repair
you are there, lying
We are there,
limb and limb
spine to spine
crossed
eyes
and
extremities
I drop below the caution tape,
You can’t be dead,
no one can be
pressed in the pages
of an open book
Watching the proteas thaw
I pull the cloud corpse
to the cold curb
and in the morning dew,
will not mourn you
