Elegy for the Fond Fever
A woman in a white dress comes to you,
lays the cool fish of her hand on your forehead.
You cry water. Water has run away.
She is so beautiful you want to keep
this fever, the shush of quilts,
her blonde braid, her blonde brow, pinched.
Soon they will make you go alone
in the cracked air with a pail frosted over
to find her well on the hill.
You will whoop with cough and the water
the water you haul up the long braid of rope
will be cold, taste of Narcissus, her perfume.
The water will splatter the dress you wear,
the one you refused to let them bury her in.
She was naked, pale
as forgiveness in the quilted satin.
Published in Zetetic