She used to sit on the forest floor
and I would cut her hair until it piled up
onto the ground, like ash.
Tonight, her name is a leaf covering
my left eye. The right I close
for the wind to stitch shut with thread
from the dress she wore into the grave
where the determined roots of the tree
are making a braid around her body.
|From The Lesser Fields. Copyright © 2009 by Rob Schlegel. Used with permission of The Center for Literary Publishing.|