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from Portraits of Mary



Mary in the new garden, sporting a shovel and a weed.

June 1. God bless this blur. Evergreens genuflect;

the hyacinth considers us kin. Ginger smiles at our feet.


Darkness picks its teeth, savoring the last morsels of light.

Hours swirl about us. Shadow is marrow in the bones

of our story. How soon we will hear footsteps on the driveway,


knocking on the door of breath, our vegetable love

swallowed by sky. The fist in my gut blossoms a hundred

weeping violets. Mary naked in the doorway. Mary folding


sweaters in the kitchen. Mary meditating. Mary modeling

a green belt. Each image is somehow epic, a mandala

at the turnstile of oblivion. Mary laughing on the patio—


spider webs in her hair, red dirt on her Danskos. Thunder.