Nancy A. Henry

Country: United States
Language(s): English

March carries you
on white shoulders
into spring
where the twisted thorn tree
blossoms into wounds again.
a calf bawls among
yellow meadow flowers,
you watch your sister,
the pale sheets blowing from her hand,
grace lavished on the earth
like rain.



The tongues of the dead
are done
with parting tender flesh
they wither
though we hear them

The tongues of the dead
cannot stop singing
to the dust children
at their sides,
need soothing
and are never soothed.

The tongues of the dead
are moving now, testing,
they can still trace
the shapes
of our names.