High among the elm, I let myself drop.
I went into the cherry-red door of home,
to help bury the child. (The door lacquered bright
as the apples my mother made each fall.
Over winesap or stayman, a poured river
of melted caramel, then dipped to pot of candy syrup.
Brittle crepitations, bitten viscous butterscotch
under tectonic plates of red shellac.) Frantic firefly,
the child lit too soon, too furiously, smelling grapevine.
I thought the oriole, or death's small bird,
called her down to night's unwinding nest.
Tablets quickly swallowed, deathly-stilled airs
of sleep: in her room, my mother's filtered gasps.
I opened her jewelry box.
From shredded, tender sarcenet inside,
I slipped my fingers around a pin's
unwieldy birds flying inside dull silver.
Alongside their silver pitch,
the brown thrasher deliberated refrains and pauses.
RAFAEL CAMPO
I Am Mrs. Lorca
-for Kim Vaeth and John Vincent
Dark love is all I've ever known; the dance
is nearly over, but I think the world
will not allow another end. The lights
burn bright, and I am married to romance,
his eyes betraying secrets that his words
conceal. He never speaks to me at night,
