This body folded in creases belongs
to mirrors. They protect him, kill her
bury her arms beneath
the Mary Todd Lincoln rose
empty for seasons of bloom.
Familiar with winter and the illustrated history
of men with substitute faces, she is removed.
In the dark, she writes: Picasso had his monkey
his masks to remind him he could no longer dance.
She has; the other body—in pieces, without blood,
attached to light and the hardship of bone.
When she breathes, she tastes words.
When she moves, she separates.
Ghosts in pursuit
I breathe the fog, drink my tea
dressed up with honey and milk.
My hands are locked to a minor key.
Who will play the piano
behind the window, adorned
with ice blue silk and an October rose,
floating free in a crystal vase?
Trap me in drifts of pretty,
run me up or run me down,
but play me a song
before dragging me out to gray.