where we measure silence

[ where we measure silence ]

Mary Magdalene lays on the ground and pretends autumn tracked her down. But thank you for the beautiful book that you gave me. To which she replied: good evening, this is my body, my wild battle with the twigs, I dream my son, I can leave anytime. Thank you to the very existence of the willow leaves in the garden. Thank you to the other meaning of maroon. I desire a dream of being dead, dressing my final body in a screen of moonflowers. Once upon a time, in fact, I opened the book skyward amidst the scentless leaves, curled into claws, falling. How to tell you now, I have become a story, become bones, become a misunderstanding of this birch's shade. So much flowering in the autumn midair. Which is when she touched her bed of moss, solemnly. Which is when she imagines, I suppose, his hands deep, her mouth a plum blossom moaning in the mud. Heaven in a simple way. A dream not big enough for a heart, I fell asleep in. The blur of leaves made the wind pick up; I tried to climb down from the tree, then I tried to study rain. It's always raining. From a distance, I watched myself climb down, speaking calmly about how I love you. Beautiful Mary, why don't you answer. Your sleeping turns my heart into a pair of crows. I hold my chest. My wounds close up before you reach up for a kiss.

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Poem quotes and/or paraphrases, in part, both Nick Flynn's book of poems, "Some Ether," and Araki Yasusada's e-Book, "Doubled Flowering."